LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  C/U.IFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


"  A 


IN  THE   CATSKILLS 


A   DISTANT  VIEW   OF   SLIDE  MOUNTAIN 
The  highest  of  the  Catskills 


O 
IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

SELECTIONS   FROM   THE  WRITINGS  OF 

JOHN  BURROUGHS 

• 

WITH 

ILLUSTRATIONS    FROM    PHOTOGRAPHS 
BY    CLIFTON   JOHNSON 


BOSTON   AND  NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

•Che  litocwibr  press  Cambridge 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,    IS?!,   I87S,    1876,   1879,    I88l,    1886,    1894,    1895,    IS99, 
1903,   1904,   1907,   1909,  BY  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

COPYRIGHT,   1910,   BY   HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  September  igio 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION  ix 

I.  THE  SNOW-WALKERS  1 

II.  A  WHITE  DAY  AND  A  RED  Fox  31 

III.  PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE  45 

IV.  IN  THE  HEMLOCKS  77 
V.  BIRDS'-NESTS  115 

VI.  THE  HEART  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  CATSKILLS    153 

VH.  SPECKLED  TROUT  185 

VEIL  A  BED  OF  BOUGHS  221 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  DISTANT  VIEW  OF  SLIDE  MOUNTAIN       Frontispiece 
The  highest  of  the  Catskills  (page  155) 

THE  STONE  WALLS  BURIED  BY  THE  DRIFTS  4 
Showing  Mr.  Burroughs's  boyhood  home 

AT  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WOODS  14 

THE  CHOPPER  IN  THE  WOODS  20 

THE  DOWNLOOK  FROM  A  HIGH  HILLSIDE  34 

THE  FOX-HUNTER  AND  HIS  HOUND  42 

THE  Cows  AT  THE  PASTURE  BARS  48 

A  MOWER  56 

HAYING  64 

CATTLE  AT  THE  SPRING  UNDER  THE  HILL  68 

WAITING  FOR  THE  Cows  74 

AT  THE  HEADWATERS  OF  THE  DELAWARE  80 
Overlooking  Mr.  Burroughs's  boyhood  home 

HEMLOCKS  88 
vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  TROUT  STREAM  96 

FINDING  A  BIRD'S-NEST  118 

IN  A  SHEEP  PASTURE  128 

ONE  OF  MR.  BURROUGHS'S  FAVORITE  PLACES  OF 

OBSERVATION  138 

THE  WITTENBERG  FROM  WOODLAND  VALLEY  158 

LARKINS'S  HUMBLE  DWELLING  180 

THE  FARM  BOY  190 

A  SETTLER'S  HOUSE  210 

THE  BEAVERKILL  214 
STOPPING  FOR  FOOD  AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  SETTLER  232 

SOME  PEOPLE  OF  THE  CATSKILLS  246 


viii 


INTRODUCTION 

r  MHE  eight  essays  in  this  volume  all  deal  with  the 
_l_  home  region  of  their  author ;  for  not  only  did 
Mr.  Burroughs  begin  life  in  the  Catskills,  and  dwell 
among  them  until  early  manhood,  but,  as  he  himself 
declares,  he  has  never  taken  root  anywhere  else. 
Their  delectable  heights  and  valleys  have  engaged 
his  deepest  affections  as  far  as  locality  is  concerned, 
and  however  widely  he  journeys  and  whatever 
charms  he  discovers  in  nature  elsewhere,  still  the 
loveliness  of  those  pastoral  boyhood  uplands  is  un- 
surpassed. 

The  ancestral  farm  is  in  Roxbury  among  the 
western  Catskills,  where  the  mountains  are  com- 
paratively gentle  in  type  and  always  graceful  in 
contour.  Cultivated  fields  and  sunny  pastures  cling 
to  their  mighty  slopes  far  up  toward  the  summits, 
there  are  patches  of  woodland  including  frequent 
groves  of  sugar  maples,  and  there  are  apple  orchards 
and  winding  roadways,  and  endless  lines  of  rude 
stone  fences,  and  scattered  dwellings.  In  every  hol- 
low runs  a  clear  trout  brook,  with  its  pools  and 
swift  shallows  and  silvery  falls.  Birds  and  other 
wild  creatures  abound ;  for  the  stony  earth  and  the 
ledges  that  crop  out  along  the  hillsides,  the  thickets 


INTRODUCTION 

and  forest  patches,  the  sheltered  glens  and  windy 
heights  offer  great  variety  in  domicile  to  animal  life. 
The  creatures  of  the  outdoor  world  are  much  in 
evidence,  and  at  no  time  do  their  numbers  impress 
one  more  than  when  in  winter  one  sees  the  hand- 
writing of  their  tracks  on  the  snow. 

The  work  on  the  farm  and  the  workers  are  gen- 
uinely rustic,  but  not  nearly  so  primitive  as  in  the 
times  that  Mr.  Burroughs  most  enjoys  recalling. 
Oxen  are  of  the  past,  the  mowing-machine  goes  over 
the  fields  where  formerly  he  labored  with  his  scythe, 
stacks  at  which  the  cattle  pull  in  the  winter  time  are 
a  rarity,  and  the  gray  old  barns  have  given  place  to 
modern  red  ones.  It  is  a  dairy  country,  and  on 
every  farm  is  found  a  large  herd  of  cows;  but  the 
milk  goes  to  the  creameries.  The  women,  however, 
still  share  in  the  milking,  and  there  is  much  of  un- 
affected simplicity  in  the  ways  of  the  household. 
On  days  when  work  is  not  pushing,  the  men  are 
likely  to  go  hunting  or  fishing,  and  they  are  always 
alert  to  observe  chances  to  take  advantage  of  those 
little  gratuities  which  nature  in  the  remoter  rural 
regions  is  constantly  offering,  both  in  the  matter 
of  game  and  in  that  of  herbs  and  roots,  berries  and 
nuts. 

Mr.  Burroughs's  old  home  has  continued  in  the 
family,  and  the  house  and  its  surroundings  have  in 
many  ways  continued  essentially  unaltered  ever 
since  he  can  remember.  What  is  most  important  — • 


INTRODUCTION 

the  wide-reaching  view  down  the  vales  and  across 
to  the  ridges  that  rise  height  on  height  until  they 
blend  with  the  sky  in  the  ethereal  distance,  is  just 
what  it  always  has  been. 

That  the  Catskills  have  proved  an  inspiration  to 
Mr.  Burroughs  cannot  be  doubted.  Possibly  we 
should  never  have  had  him  as  a  nature  writer  at  all, 
had  he  spent  his  impressible  youthful  years  in  a  less 
favored  locality.  It  is,  however,  a  curious  fact  that 
the  town  which  produced  this  lover  of  nature  also 
produced  one  other  man  of  national  fame,  who  was 
as  different  from  him  as  could  well  be  imagined.  I 
refer  to  Jay  Gould.  He  was  born  in  the  same  town 
and  in  the  same  part  of  the  town,  went  to  the  same 
school,  saw  the  same  scenes,  was  a  farm  boy  like 
Burroughs,  and  had  practically  the  same  experi- 
ences. Indeed,  the  two  were  a  good  deal  together. 
But  how  different  their  later  lives !  It  seems  easy  to 
grant  that  environment  helped  make  the  one;  but 
what  effect,  if  any,  did  that  beautiful  Catskill  coun- 
try have  on  the  other  ? 

There  are  two  seasons  of  the  year  when  Mr. 
Burroughs  is  particularly  fond  of  getting  back  to 
his  old  home.  The  first  is  in  sap-time,  when  maple 
sugar  is  being  made  in  the  little  shack  on  the  borders 
of  the  rock-maple  grove.  The  second  is  in  midsum- 
mer, when  haying  is  in  progress.  Both  occasions 
have  exceptional  power  for  arousing  pleasant  mem- 
ories of  the  past,  though  such  memories  have  also 


INTRODUCTION 

their  touch  of  sadness.  In  his  early  years  he  helped 
materially  in  the  farm  work  while  on  these  visits ; 
but  latterly  he  gives  his  time  to  rambling  and  con- 
templation. He  once  said  to  me,  in  speaking  of  a 
neighbor:  "That  man  hasn't  a  lazy  bone  in  his 
body.  But  I  have  lots  of  'em  —  lots  of  'em." 

This  affirmation  is  not  to  be  interpreted  too  liter- 
ally. He  has  made  a  business  success  in  raising  small 
fruits,  and  his  literary  output  has  been  by  no  means 
meagre.  I  might  also  mention  that  in  youth  he  was 
something  of  a  champion  at  swinging  the  scythe, 
and  few  could  mow  as  much  in  the  course  of  a  day. 
But  certainly  labor  is  no  fetich  of  his,  and  he  hits  a 
real  genius  for  loafing.  In  another  man  his  leisurely 
rambling  with  its  pauses  to  rest  on  rock  or  grassy 
bank  or  fallen  tree,  his  mind  meanwhile  absolutely 
free  from  the  feeling  that  he  ought  to  be  up  and 
doing,  might  be  shiftlessness.  But  how  else  could 
he  have  acquired  his  delightful  intimacy  with  the 
woods  and  fields  and  streams,  and  with  wild  lif  :Q 
all  its  moods  ?  Surely  most  of  our  hustling,  unti  ig 
workers  would  be  better  off  if  they  had  some  of  his 
same  ability  to  cast  aside  care  and  responsibility  d 
get  back  to  Nature  —  the  good  mother  of  us  ail. 

CLIFTON  JOHNSON. 
Hadley,  Mass.,  1910. 

NOTE. — The  pictures  in  this  volume  were  all  made  in  the 
Catskills  and  are  the  results  of  several  trips  to  the  regions  De- 
scribed in  the  essays. 


I 

THE  SNOW-WALKERS 


in 

.i 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

HE  who  marvels  at  the  beauty  of  the  world  in 
summer  will  find  equal  cause  for  wonder  and 
admiration  in  winter.  It  is  true  the  pomp  and  the 
pageantry  are  swept  away,  but  the  essential  elements 
remain,  —  the  day  and  the  night,  the  mountain  and 
the  valley,  the  elemental  play  and  succession  and 
the  perpetual  presence  of  the  infinite  sky.  In  win- 
ter the  stars  seem  to  have  rekindled  their  fires,  the 
moon  achieves  a  fuller  triumph,  and  the  heavens 
wear  a  look  of  a  more  exalted  simplicity.  Summer 
is  more  wooing  and  seductive,  more  versatile  and 
human,  appeals  to  the  affections  and  the  sentiments, 
and  fosters  inquiry  and  the  art  impulse.  Winter  is 
of  a  more  heroic  cast,  and  addresses  the  intellect. 
The  severe  studies  and  disciplines  come  easier  in 
winter.  One  imposes  larger  tasks  upon  himself, 
and  is  less  tolerant  of  his  own  weaknesses. 

The  tendinous  part  of  the  mind,  so  to  speak,  is 
more  developed  in  winter;  the  fleshy,  in  summer. 
I  should  say  winter  had  given  the  bone  and  sinew 
to  Literature,  summer  the  tissues  and  blood. 

The  simplicity  of  winter  has  a  deep  moral.    The 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

return  of  nature,  after  such  a  career  of  splendor  and 
prodigality,  to  habits  so  simple  and  austere,  is  not 
lost  either  upon  the  head  or  the  heart.  It  is  the 
philosopher  coming  back  from  the  banquet  and  the 
wine  to  a  cup  of  water  and  a  crust  of  bread. 

And  then  this  beautiful  masquerade  of  the  ele- 
ments, —  the  novel  disguises  our  nearest  friends  put 
on!  Here  is  another  rain  and  another  dew,  water 
that  will  not  flow,  nor  spill,  nor  receive  the  taint  of 
an  unclean  vessel.  And  if  we  see  truly,  the  same 
old  beneficence  and  willingness  to  serve  lurk  be- 
neath all. 

Look  up  at  the  miracle  of  the  falling  snow,  — 
the  air  a  dizzy  maze  of  whirling,  eddying  flakes, 
noiselessly  transforming  the  world,  the  exquisite 
crystals  dropping  in  ditch  and  gutter,  and  disguising 
in  the  same  suit  of  spotless  livery  all  objects  upon 
which  they  fall.  How  novel  and  fine  the  first  drifts ! 
The  old,  dilapidated  fence  is  suddenly  set  off  with 
the  most  fantastic  ruffles,  scalloped  and  fluted  after 
an  unheard-of  fashion!  Looking  down  a  long  line 
of  decrepit  stone  wall,  in  the  trimming  of  which  the 
wind  had  fairly  run  riot,  I  saw,  as  for  the  first  time, 
what  a  severe  yet  master  artist  old  Winter  is.  Ah,  a 
severe  artist!  How  stern  the  woods  look,  dark  and 
cold  and  as  rigid  against  the  horizon  as  iron ! 

All  life  and  action  upon  the  snow  have  an  added 
emphasis  and  significance.  Every  expression  is 
underscored.  Summer  has  few  finer  pictures  than 
4 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

this  winter  one  of  the  farmer  foddering  his  cattle 
from  a  stack  upon  the  clean  snow, — the  movement, 
the  sharply  defined  figures,  the  great  green  flakes  of 
hay,  the  long  file  of  patient  cows,  the  advance  just 
arriving  and  pressing  eagerly  for  the  choicest  mor- 
sels, and  the  bounty  and  providence  it  suggests. 
Or  the  chopper  in  the  woods,  —  the  prostrate  tree, 
the  white  new  chips  scattered  about,  his  easy  tri- 
umph over  the  cold,  his  coat  hanging  to  a  limb,  and 
the  clear,  sharp  ring  of  his  axe.  The  woods  are 
rigid  and  tense,  keyed  up  by  the  frost,  and  resound 
like  a  stringed  instrument.  Or  the  road-breakers, 
sallying  forth  with  oxen  and  sleds  in  the  still,  white 
world,  the  day  after  the  storm,  to  restore  the  lost 
track  and  demolish  the  beleaguering  drifts. 

All  sounds  are  sharper  in  winter;  the  air  trans- 
mits better.  At  night  I  hear  more  distinctly  the 
steady  roar  of  the  North  Mountain.  In  summer  it 
is  a  sort  of  complacent  purr,  as  the  breezes  stroke 
down  its  sides;  but  in  winter  always  the  same  low, 
sullen  growl. 

A  severe  artist!  No  longer  the  canvas  and  the 
pigments,  but  the  marble  and  the  chisel.  When 
the  nights  are  calm  and  the  moon  full,  I  go  out  to 
gaze  upon  the  wonderful  purity  of  the  moonlight 
and  the  snow.  The  air  is  full  of  latent  fire,  and 
the  cold  warms  me  —  after  a  different  fashion  from 
that  of  the  kitchen  stove.  The  world  lies  about  me 
in  a  "trance  of  snow."  The  clouds  are  pearly  and 
5 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

iridescent,  and  seem  the  farthest  possible  remove 
from   the   condition   of   a   storm,  —  the  ghosts  of 
clouds,  the  indwelling  beauty  freed  from  all  dross. 
I  see  the  hills,  bulging  with  great  drifts,  lift  them- 
selves up  cold  and  white  against  the  sky,  the  black 
lines  of  fences  here  and  there  obliterated  by  the 
depth  of  the  snow.    Presently  a  fox  barks  away  up 
next  the  mountain,  and  I  imagine  I  can  almost  see 
him  sitting  there,  in  his  furs,  upon  the  illuminated 
surface,  and  looking  down  in  my  direction.    As  I 
listen,  one  answers  him  from  behind  the  woods  in 
the  valley.     What  a  wild  winter  sound,  wild  and 
weird,  up  among  the  ghostly  hills !    Since  the  wolf 
has  ceased  to  howl  upon  these  mountains,  and  the 
panther  to  scream,  there  is  nothing  to  be  compared 
with  it.  So  wild!  I  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
to  hear  it.    It  is  refreshing  to  the  ear,  and  one  de- 
lights to  know  that  such  wild  creatures  are  among 
us.   At  this  season  Nature  makes  the  most  of  every 
throb  of  life  that  can  withstand  her  severity.    How 
heartily  she  indorses  this  fox!    In  what  bold  relief 
stand  out  the  lives  of  all  walkers  of  the  snow !  The 
snow  is  a  great  tell-tale,  and  blabs  as  effectually 
as  it  obliterates.    I  go  into  the  woods,  and  know 
all  that  has  happened.     I  cross  the  fields,  and  if 
only  a  mouse  has  visited  his  neighbor,  the  fact  is 
chronicled. 

The  red  fox  is  the  only  species  that  abounds  in 
my  locality;   the  little  gray  fox  seems  to  prefer  a 


THE    SNOW-WALKERS 

more  rocky  and  precipitous  country,  and  a  less  rigor- 
ous climate;  the  cross  fox  is  occasionally  seen,  and 
there  are  traditions  of  the  silver  gray  among  the 
oldest  hunters.  But  the  red  fox  is  the  sportsman's 
prize,  and  the  only  fur-bearer  worthy  of  note  in 
these  mountains.1  I  go  out  in  the  morning,  after 
a  fresh  fall  of  snow,  and  see  at  all  points  where  he 
has  crossed  the  road.  Here  he  has  leisurely  passed 
within  rifle-range  of  the  house,  evidently  reconnoi- 
tring the  premises  with  an  eye  to  the  hen-roost. 
That  clear,  sharp  track,  —  there  is  no  mistaking 
it  for  the  clumsy  footprint  of  a  little  dog.  All  his 
wildness  and  agility  are  photographed  in  it.  Here 
he  has  taken  fright,  or  suddenly  recollected  an  en- 
gagement, and  in  long,  graceful  leaps,  barely  touch- 
ing the  fence,  has  gone  careering  up  the  hill  as  fleet 
as  the  wind. 

The  wild,  buoyant  creature,  how  beautiful  he  is ! 
I  had  often  seen  his  dead  carcass,  and  at  a  distance 
had  witnessed  the  hounds  drive  him  across  the  upper 
fields ;  but  the  thrill  and  excitement  of  meeting  him 
in  his  wild  freedom  in  the  woods  were  unknown  to 
me  till,  one  cold  winter  day,  drawn  thither  by  the 
baying  of  a  hound,  I  stood  near  the  summit  of  the 
mountain,  waiting  a  renewal  of  the  sound,  that  I 
might  determine  the  course  of  the  dog  and  choose 
my  position,  —  stimulated  by  the  ambition  of  all 
young  Nimrods  to  bag  some  notable  game.  Long 

1  A  spur  of  the  Catskills. 
7 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

I  waited,  and  patiently,  till,  chilled  and  benumbed, 
I  was  about  to  turn  back,  when,  hearing  a  slight 
noise,  I  looked  up  and  beheld  a  most  superb  fox, 
loping  along  with  inimitable  grace  and  ease,  evi- 
dently disturbed,  but  not  pursued  by  the  hound, 
and  so  absorbed  in  his  private  meditations  that  he 
failed  to  see  me,  though  I  stood  transfixed  with 
amazement  and  admiration,  not  ten  yards  distant. 
I  took  his  measure  at  a  glance,  —  a  large  male,  with 
dark  legs,  and  massive  tail  tipped  with  white,  —  a 
most  magnificent  creature ;  but  so  astonished  and 
fascinated  was  I  by  this  sudden  appearance  and 
matchless  beauty,  that  not  till  I  had  caught  the  last 
glimpse  of  him,  as  he  disappeared  over  a  knoll,  did 
I  awake  to  my  duty  as  a  sportsman,  and  realize 
what  an  opportunity  to  distinguish  myself  I  had 
unconsciously  let  slip.  I  clutched  my  gun,  half 
angrily,  as  if  it  was  to  blame,  and  went  home  out 
of  humor  with  myself  and  all  fox-kind.  But  I  have 
since  thought  better  of  the  experience,  and  con- 
cluded that  I  bagged  the  game  after  all,  the  best 
part  of  it,  and  fleeced  Reynard  of  something  more 
valuable  than  his  fur,  without  his  knowledge. 

This  is  thoroughly  a  winter  sound,  —  this  voice 
of  the  hound  upon  the  mountain,  —  and  one  that  is 
music  to  many  ears.  The  long  trumpet-like  bay, 
heard  for  a  mile  or  more,  —  now  faintly  back  in  the 
deep  recesses  of  the  mountain,  —  now  distinct,  but 
still  faint,  as  the  hound  comes  over  some  prominent 
8 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

point  and  the  wind  favors,  —  anon  entirely  lost  in 
the  gully,  —  then  breaking  out  again  much  nearer, 
and  growing  more  and  more  pronounced  as  the  dog 
approaches,  till,  when  he  comes  around  the  brow 
of  the  mountain,  directly  above  you,  the  barking 
is  loud  and  sharp.  On  he  goes  along  the  north- 
ern spur,  his  voice  rising  and  sinking  as  the  wind 
and  the  lay  of  the  ground  modify  it,  till  lost  to 
hearing. 

The  fox  usually  keeps  half  a  mile  ahead,  regulat- 
ing his  speed  by  that  of  the  hound,  occasionally 
pausing  a  moment  to  divert  himself  with  a  mouse, 
or  to  contemplate  the  landscape,  or  to  listen  for  his 
pursuer.  If  the  hound  press  him  too  closely,  he 
leads  off  from  mountain  to  mountain,  and  so  gen- 
erally escapes  the  hunter ;  but  if  the  pursuit  be 
slow,  he  plays  about  some  ridge  or  peak,  and  falls 
a  prey,  though  not  an  easy  one,  to  the  experienced 
sportsman. 

A  most  spirited  and  exciting  chase  occurs  when  the 
farm-dog  gets  close  upon  one  in  the  open  field,  as 
sometimes  happens  in  the  early  morning.  The  fox 
relies  so  confidently  upon  his  superior  speed,  that  I 
imagine  he  half  tempts  the  dog  to  the  race.  But  if 
the  dog  be  a  smart  one,  and  their  course  lies  down- 
hill, over  smooth  ground,  Reynard  must  put  his 
best  foot  forward,  and  then  sometimes  suffer  the 
ignominy  of  being  run  over  by  his  pursuer,  who, 
however,  is  quite  unable  to  pick  him  up,  owing  to 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

the  speed.  But  when  they  mount  the  hill,  or  enter 
the  woods,  the  superior  nimbleness  and  agility  of  the 
fox  tell  at  once,  and  he  easily  leaves  the  dog  far  in 
his  rear.  For  a  cur  less  than  his  own  size  he  mani- 
fests little  fear,  especially  if  the  two  meet  alone, 
remote  from  the  house.  In  such  cases,  I  have  seen 
first  one  turn  tail,  then  the  other. 

A  novel  spectacle  often  occurs  in  summer,  when 
the  female  has  young.  You  are  rambling  on  the 
mountain,  accompanied  by  your  dog,  when  you  are 
startled  by  that  wild,  half-threatening  squall,  and 
in  a  moment  perceive  your  dog,  with  inverted  tail, 
and  shame  and  confusion  in  his  looks,  sneaking 
toward  you,  the  old  fox  but  a  few  rods  in  his  rear. 
You  speak  to  him  sharply,  when  he  bristles  up, 
turns  about,  and,  barking,  starts  off  vigorously,  as 
if  to  wipe  out  the  dishonor;  but  in  a  moment  comes 
sneaking  back  more  abashed  than  ever,  and  owns 
himself  unworthy  to  be  called  a  dog.  The  fox  fairly 
shames  him  out  of  the  woods.  The  secret  of  the 
matter  is  her  sex,  though  her  conduct,  for  the  honor 
of  the  fox  be  it  said,  seems  to  be  prompted  only  by 
solicitude  for  the  safety  of  her  young. 

One  of  the  most  notable  features  of  the  fox  is  his 
large  and  massive  tail.  Seen  running  on  the  snow 
at  a  distance,  his  tail  is  quite  as  conspicuous  as  his 
body;  and,  so  far  from  appearing  a  burden,  seems 
to  contribute  to  his  lightness  and  buoyancy.  It 
softens  the  outline  of  his  movements,  and  repeats  or 
10 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

continues  to  the  eye  the  ease  and  poise  of  his  car- 
riage. But,  pursued  by  the  hound  on  a  wet,  thawy 
day,  it  often  becomes  so  heavy  and  bedraggled  as  to 
prove  a  serious  inconvenience,  and  compels  him  to 
take  refuge  in  his  den.  He  is  very  loath  to  do  this; 
both  his  pride  and  the  traditions  of  his  race  stimu- 
late him  to  run  it  out,  and  win  by  fair  superiority 
of  wind  and  speed  ;  and  only  a  wound  or  a  heavy 
and  moppish  tail  will  drive  him  to  avoid  the  issue 
in  this  manner. 

To  learn  his  surpassing  shrewdness  and  cunning, 
attempt  to  take  him  with  a  trap.  Rogue  that  he 
is,  he  always  suspects  some  trick,  and  one  must  be 
more  of  a  fox  than  he  is  himself  to  overreach  him. 
At  first  sight  it  would  appear  easy  enough.  With 
apparent  indifference  he  crosses  your  path,  or  walks 
in  your  footsteps  in  the  field,  or  travels  along  the 
beaten  highway,  or  lingers  in  the  vicinity  of  stacks 
and  remote  barns.  Carry  the  carcass  of  a  pig, 
or  a  fowl,  or  a  dog,  to  a  distant  field  in  midwin- 
ter, and  in  a  few  nights  his  tracks  cover  the  snow 
about  it. 

The  inexperienced  country  youth,  misled  by  this 
seeming  carelessness  of  Reynard,  suddenly  conceives 
a  project  to  enrich  himself  with  fur,  and  wonders 
that  the  idea  has  not  occurred  to  him  before,  and 
to  others.  I  knew  a  youthful  yeoman  of  this  kind, 
who  imagined  he  had  found  a  mine  of  wealth  on 
discovering  on  a  remote  side-hill,  between  two  woods, 
11 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

a  dead  porker,  upon  which  it  appeared  all  the  foxes 
of  the  neighborhood  had  nightly  banqueted.  The 
clouds  were  burdened  with  snow;  and  as  the  first 
flakes  commenced  to  eddy  down,  he  set  out,  trap 
and  broom  in  hand,  already  counting  over  in  imagi- 
nation the  silver  quarters  he  would  receive  for  his 
first  fox-skin.  With  the  utmost  care,  and  with  a 
palpitating  heart,  he  removed  enough  of  the  trodden 
snow  to  allow  the  trap  to  sink  below  the  surface. 
Then,  carefully  sifting  the  light  element  over  it 
and  sweeping  his  tracks  full,  he  quickly  withdrew, 
laughing  exultingly  over  the  little  surprise  he  had 
prepared  for  the  cunning  rogue.  The  elements  con- 
spired to  aid  him,  and  the  falling  snow  rapidly  oblit- 
erated all  vestiges  of  his  work.  The  next  morning 
at  dawn  he  was  on  his  way  to  bring  in  his  fur. 
The  snow  had  done  its  work  effectually,  and,  he 
believed,  had  kept  his  secret  well.  Arrived  in  sight 
of  the  locality,  he  strained  his  vision  to  make  out 
his  prize  lodged  against  the  fence  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  Approaching  nearer,  the  surface  was  unbroken, 
and  doubt  usurped  the  place  of  certainty  in  his 
mind.  A  slight  mound  marked  the  site  of  the 
porker,  but  there  was  no  footprint  near  it.  Look- 
ing up  the  hill,  he  saw  where  Reynard  had  walked 
leisurely  down  toward  his  wonted  bacon  till  within 
a  few  yards  of  it,  when  he  had  wheeled,  and  with 
prodigious  strides  disappeared  in  the  woods.  The 
young  trapper  saw  at  a  glance  what  a  comment  this 
12 


THE  SNOW-WALKERS 

was  upon  his  skill  in  the  art,  and,  indignantly 
exhuming  the  iron,  he  walked  home  with  it,  the 
stream  of  silver  quarters  suddenly  setting  in  another 
direction. 

The  successful  trapper  commences  in  the  fall,  or 
before  the  first  deep  snow.  In  a  field  not  too  re- 
mote, with  an  old  axe  he  cuts  a  small  place,  say 
ten  inches  by  fourteen,  in  the  frozen  ground,  and 
removes  the  earth  to  the  depth  of  three  or  four 
inches,  then  fills  the  cavity  with  dry  ashes,  in  which 
are  placed  bits  of  roasted  cheese.  Reynard  is  very 
suspicious  at  first,  and  gives  the  place  a  wide  berth. 
It  looks  like  design,  and  he  will  see  how  the  thing 
behaves  before  he  approaches  too  near.  But  the 
cheese  is  savory  and  the  cold  severe.  He  ventures  a 
little  closer  every  night,  until  he  can  reach  and  pick 
a  piece  from  the  surface.  Emboldened  by  success, 
like  other  mortals,  he  presently  digs  freely  among 
the  ashes,  and,  finding  a  fresh  supply  of  the  delec- 
table morsels  every  night,  is  soon  thrown  off  his 
guard  and  his  suspicions  quite  lulled.  After  a  week 
of  baiting  in  this  manner,  and  on  the  eve  of  a  light 
fall  of  snow,  the  trapper  carefully  conceals  his  trap 
in  the  bed,  first  smoking  it  thoroughly  with  hemlock 
boughs  to  kill  or  neutralize  the  smell  of  the  iron.  If 
the  weather  favors  and  the  proper  precautions  have 
been  taken,  he  may  succeed,  though  the  chances 
are  still  greatly  against  him. 

Reynard  is  usually  caught  very  lightly,  seldom 
13 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

more  than  the  ends  of  his  toes  being  between  the 
jaws.  He  sometimes  works  so  cautiously  as  to 
spring  the  trap  without  injury  even  to  his  toes,  or 
may  remove  the  cheese  night  after  night  without 
even  springing  it.  I  knew  an  old  trapper  who,  on 
finding  himself  outwitted  in  this  manner,  tied  a  bit 
of  cheese  to  the  pan,  and  next  morning  had  poor 
Reynard  by  the  jaw.  The  trap  is  not  fastened,  but 
only  encumbered  with  a  clog,  and  is  all  the  more 
sure  in  its  hold  by  yielding  to  every  effort  of  the 
animal  to  extricate  himself. 

When  Reynard  sees  his  captor  approaching,  he 
would  fain  drop  into  a  mouse-hole  to  render  himself 
invisible.  He  crouches  to  the  ground  and  remains 
perfectly  motionless  until  he  perceives  himself  dis- 
covered, when  he  makes  one  desperate  and  final 
effort  to  escape,  but  ceases  all  struggling  as  you 
come  up,  and  behaves  in  a  manner  that  stamps  him 
a  very  timid  warrior,  —  cowering  to  the  earth  with 
a  mingled  look  of  shame,  guilt,  and  abject  fear.  A 
young  farmer  told  me  of  tracing  one  with  his  trap 
to  the  border  of  a  wood,  where  he  discovered  the 
cunning  rogue  trying  to  hide  by  embracing  a  small 
tree.  Most  animals,  when  taken  in  a  trap,  show 
fight;  but  Reynard  has  more  faith  in  the  nimble- 
ness  of  his  feet  than  in  the  terror  of  his  teeth. 

Entering  the  woods,  the  number  and  variety  of 
the  tracks  contrast  strongly  with  the  rigid,  frozen 
aspect  of  things.  Warm  jets  of  life  still  shoot  and 
14 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

play  amid  this  snowy  desolation.  Fox-tracks  are 
far  less  numerous  than  in  the  fields;  but  those 
of  hares,  skunks,  partridges,  squirrels,  and  mice 
abound.  The  mice  tracks  are  very  pretty,  and  look 
like  a  sort  of  fantastic  stitching  on  the  coverlid  of  the 
snow.  One  is  curious  to  know  what  brings  these 
tiny  creatures  from  their  retreats ;  they  do  not  seem 
to  be  in  quest  of  food,  but  rather  to  be  traveling 
about  for  pleasure  or  sociability,  though  always  go- 
ing post-haste,  and  linking  stump  with  stump  and 
tree  with  tree  by  fine,  hurried  strides.  That  is  when 
they  travel  openly;  but  they  have  hidden  passages 
and  winding  galleries  under  the  snow,  which  un- 
doubtedly are  their  main  avenues  of  communica- 
tion. Here  and  there  these  passages  rise  so  near 
the  surface  as  to  be  covered  by  only  a  frail  arch  of 
snow,  and  a  slight  ridge  betrays  their  course  to  the 
eye.  I  know  him  well.  He  is  known  to  the  farmer 
as  the  "  deer  mouse,"  to  the  naturalist  as  the  white- 
footed  mouse,  —  a  very  beautiful  creature,  noctur- 
nal in  his  habits,  with  large  ears,  and  large,  fine 
eyes,  full  of  a  wild,  harmless  look.  He  is  daintily 
marked,  with  white  feet  and  a  white  belly.  When 
disturbed  by  day  he  is  very  easily  captured,  having 
none  of  the  cunning  or  viciousness  of  the  common 
Old  World  mouse. 

It  is  he  who,  high  in  the  hollow  trunk  of  some 
tree,  lays  by  a  store  of  beechnuts  for  winter  use. 
Every  nut  is  carefully  shelled,  and  the  cavity  that 
15 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

serves  as  storehouse  lined  with  grass  and  leaves. 
The  wood-chopper  frequently  squanders  this  pre- 
cious store.  I  have  seen  half  a  peck  taken  from  one 
tree,  as  clean  and  white  as  if  put  up  by  the  most 
delicate  hands,  —  as  they  were.  How  long  it  must 
have  taken  the  little  creature  to  collect  this  quan- 
tity, to  hull  them  one  by  one,  and  convey  them  up 
to  his  fifth-story  chamber!  He  is  not  confined  to 
the  woods,  but  is  quite  as  common  in  the  fields, 
particularly  in  the  fall,  amid  the  corn  and  potatoes. 
When  routed  by  the  plow,  I  have  seen  the  old 
one  take  flight  with  half  a  dozen  young  hanging  to 
her  teats,  and  with  such  reckless  speed  that  some 
of  the  young  would  lose  their  hold  and  fly  off  amid 
the  weeds.  Taking  refuge  in  a  stump  with  the  rest 
of  her  family,  the  anxious  mother  would  presently 
come  back  and  hunt  up  the  missing  ones. 

The  snow-walkers  are  mostly  night-walkers  also, 
and  the  record  they  leave  upon  the  snow  is  the  main 
clew  one  has  to  their  life  and  doings.  The  hare 
is  nocturnal  in  its  habits,  and  though  a  very  lively 
creature  at  night,  with  regular  courses  and  run-ways 
through  the  wood,  is  entirely  quiet  by  day.  Timid 
as  he  is,  he  makes  little  effort  to  conceal  himself, 
usually  squatting  beside  a  log,  stump,  or  tree,  and 
seeming  to  avoid  rocks  and  ledges  where  he  might 
be  partially  housed  from  the  cold  and  the  snow, 
but  where  also  —  and  this  consideration  undoubt- 
edly determines  his  choice — he  would  be  more  apt 
16 


THE  SNOW-WALKERS 

to  fall  a  prey  to  his  enemies.  In  this,  as  well  as 
in  many  other  respects,  he  differs  from  the  rabbit 
proper:  he  never  burrows  in  the  ground,  or  takes 
refuge  in  a  den  or  hole,  when  pursued.  If  caught 
in  the  open  fields,  he  is  much  confused  and  easily 
overtaken  by  the  dog;  but  in  the  woods,  he  leaves 
him  at  a  bound.  In  summer,  when  first  disturbed, 
he  beats  the  ground  violently  with  his  feet,  by 
which  means  he  would  express  to  you  his  surprise 
or  displeasure;  it  is  a  dumb  way  he  has  of  scolding. 
After  leaping  a  few  yards,  he  pauses  an  instant, 
as  if  to  determine  the  degree  of  danger,  and  then 
hurries  away  with  a  much  lighter  tread. 

His  feet  are  like  great  pads,  and  his  track  has 
little  of  the  sharp,  articulated  expression  of  Rey- 
nard's, or  of  animals  that  climb  or  dig.  Yet  it  is 
very  pretty  like  all  the  rest,  and  tells  its  own  tale. 
There  is  nothing  bold  or  vicious  or  vulpine  in  it, 
and  his  timid,  harmless  character  is  published  at 
every  leap.  He  abounds  in  dense  woods,  preferring 
localities  filled  with  a  small  undergrowth  of  beech 
and  birch,  upon  the  bark  of  which  he  feeds.  Nature 
is  rather  partial  to  him,  and  matches  his  extreme 
local  habits  and  character  with  a  suit  that  corre- 
sponds with  his  surroundings,  —  reddish  gray  in 
summer  and  white  in  winter. 

The  sharp-rayed  track  of  the  partridge  adds  an- 
other figure  to  this  fantastic  embroidery  upon  the 
winter  snow.  Her  course  is  a  clear,  strong  line, 
17 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

sometimes  quite  wayward,  but  generally  very  direct, 
steering  for  the  densest,  most  impenetrable  places, 

—  leading  you  over  logs  and  through  brush,  alert 
and  expectant,  till,  suddenly,  she  bursts  up  a  few 
yards  from  you,  and  goes  humming  through  the 
trees,  —  the  complete  triumph  of  endurance  and 
vigor.    Hardy  native  bird,  may  your  tracks  never 
be  fewer,  or  your  visits  to  the  birch-tree  less  fre- 
quent ! 

The  squirrel  tracks  —  sharp,  nervous,  and  wiry 

—  have  their  histories  also.   But  how  rarely  we  see 
squirrels  in  winter!    The  naturalists  say  they  are 
mostly  torpid ;  yet  evidently  that  little  pocket-faced 
depredator,  the  chipmunk,  was  not  carrying  buck- 
wheat for  so  many  days  to  his  hole  for  nothing: 
was  he  anticipating  a  state  of  torpidity,  or  provid- 
ing against  the  demands  of  a  very  active  appetite  ? 
Red  and  gray  squirrels  are  more  or  less  active  all 
winter,  though  very  shy,  and,  I  am  inclined  to  think, 
partially  nocturnal  in  their  habits.  [  Here  a  gray  one 
has  just  passed,  —  came  down  that  tree  and  went 
up  this;  there  he  dug  for  a  beechnut,  and  left  the 
burr  on  the  snow.    How  did  he  know  where  to  dig  ? 
During  an  unusually  severe  winter  I  have  known 
him  to  make  long  journeys  to  a  barn,  in  a  remote 
field,  where  wheat  was  stored.    How  did  he  know 
there  was  wheat  there  ?     In  attempting  to  return, 
the  adventurous  creature  was  frequently  run  down 
and  caught  in  the  deep  snow. 

18 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

His  home  is  in  the  trunk  of  some  old  birch  or 
maple,  with  an  entrance  far  up  amid  the  branches. 
In  the  spring  he  builds  himself  a  summer-house  of 
small  leafy  twigs  in  the  top  of  a  neighboring  beech, 
where  the  young  are  reared  and  much  of  the  time 
is  passed.  But  the  safer  retreat  in  the  maple  is  not 
abandoned,  and  both  old  and  young  resort  thither 
in  the  fall,  or  when  danger  threatens.  Whether 
this  temporary  residence  amid  the  branches  is  for 
elegance  or  pleasure,  or  for  sanitary  reasons  or  do- 
mestic convenience,  the  naturalist  has  forgotten  to 
mention. 

The  elegant  creature,  so  cleanly  in  its  habits,  so 
graceful  in  its  carriage,  so  nimble  and  daring  in  its 
movements,  excites  feelings  of  admiration  akin  to 
those  awakened  by  the  birds  and  the  fairer  forms 
of  nature.  His  passage  through  the  trees  is  almost 
a  flight.  Indeed,  the  flying  squirrel  has  little  or  no 
advantage  over  him,  and  in  speed  and  nimbleness 
cannot  compare  with  him  at  all.  If  he  miss  his 
footing  and  fall,  he  is  sure  to  catch  on  the  next 
branch;  if  the  connection  be  broken,  he  leaps  reck- 
lessly for  the  nearest  spray  or  limb,  and  secures  his 
hold,  even  if  it  be  by  the  aid  of  his  teeth. 

His  career  of  frolic  and  festivity  begins  in  the 
fall,  after  the  birds  have  left  us  and  the  holiday 
spirit  of  nature  has  commenced  to  subside.  How 
absorbing  the  pastime  of  the  sportsman  who  goes 
to  the  woods  in  the  still  October  morning  in  quest 
19 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

of  him!  You  step  lightly  across  the  threshold  of 
the  forest,  and  sit  down  upon  the  first  log  or  rock 
to  await  the  signals.  It  is  so  still  that  the  ear  sud- 
denly seems  to  have  acquired  new  powers,  and  there 
is  no  movement  to  confuse  the  eye.  Presently  you 
hear  the  rustling  of  a  branch,  and  see  it  sway  or 
spring  as  the  squirrel  leaps  from  or  to  it;  or  else 
you  hear  a  disturbance  in  the  dry  leaves,  and  mark 
one  running  upon  the  ground.  He  has  probably 
seen  the  intruder,  and,  not  liking  his  stealthy  move- 
ments, desires  to  avoid  a  nearer  acquaintance.  Now 
he  mounts  a  stump  to  see  if  the  way  is  clear,  then 
pauses  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  to  take  his 
bearings,  his  tail,  as  he  skims  along,  undulating  be- 
hind him,  and  adding  to  the  easy  grace  and  dignity 
of  his  movements.  Or  else  you  are  first  advised  of 
his  proximity  by  the  dropping  of  a  false  nut,  or  the 
fragments  of  the  shucks  rattling  upon  the  leaves. 
Or,  again,  after  contemplating  you  awhile  unob- 
served, and  making  up  his  mind  that  you  are  not 
dangerous,  he  strikes  an  attitude  on  a  branch,  and 
commences  to  quack  and  bark,  with  an  accompany- 
ing movement  of  his  tail.  Late  in  the  afternoon, 
when  the  same  stillness  reigns,  the  same  scenes  are 
repeated.  There  is  a  black  variety,  quite  rare,  but 
mating  freely  with  the  gray,  from  which  he  seems 
to  be  distinguished  only  in  color. 

The  track  of  the  red  squirrel  may  be  known  by 
its  smaller  size.    He  is  more  common  and  less  dig- 
20 


THE   CHOPPER  IX  THE  WOODS 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

nified  than  the  gray,  and  oftener  guilty  of  petty  lar- 
ceny about  the  barns  and  grain-fields.  He  is  most 
abundant  in  old  barkpeelings,  and  low,  dilapidated 
hemlocks,  from  which  he  makes  excursions  to  the 
fields  and  orchards,  spinning  along  the  tops  of  the 
fences,  which  afford  not  only  convenient  lines  of 
communication,  but  a  safe  retreat  if  danger  threat- 
ens. He  loves  to  linger  about  the  orchard;  and, 
sitting  upright  on  the  topmost  stone  in  the  wall,  or 
on  the  tallest  stake  in  the  fence,  chipping  up  an 
apple  for  the  seeds,  his  tail  conforming  to  the  curve 
of  his  back,  his  paws  shifting  and  turning  the  apple, 
he  is  a  pretty  sight,  and  his  bright,  pert  appearance 
atones  for  all  the  mischief  he  does.  At  home,  in 
the  woods,  he  is  the  most  frolicsome  and  loquacious. 
The  appearance  of  anything  unusual,  if,  after  con- 
templating it  a  moment,  he  concludes  it  not  dan- 
gerous, excites  his  unbounded  mirth  and  ridicule, 
and  he  snickers  and  chatters,  hardly  able  to  contain 
himself;  now  darting  up  the  trunk  of  a  tree  and 
squealing  in  derision,  then  hopping  into  position 
on  a  limb  and  dancing  to  the  music  of  his  own 
cackle,  and  all  for  your  special  benefit. 

There  is  something  very  human  in  this  apparent 
mirth  and  mockery  of  the  squirrels.  It  seems  to 
be  a  sort  of  ironical  laughter,  and  implies  self-con- 
scious pride  and  exultation  in  the  laugher.  "What 
a  ridiculous  thing  you  are,  to  be  sure ! "  he  seems  to 
say;  "how  clumsy  and  awkward,  and  what  a  poor 
21 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

show  for  a  tail!  Look  at  me,  look  at  me!"  —  and 
he  capers  about  in  his  best  style.  Again,  he  would 
seem  to  tease  you  and  provoke  your  attention;  then 
suddenly  assumes  a  tone  of  good-natured,  childlike 
defiance  and  derision.  That  pretty  little  imp,  the 
chipmunk,  will  sit  on  the  stone  above  his  den  and 
defy  you,  as  plainly  as  if  he  said  so,  to  catch  him 
before  he  can  get  into  his  hole  if  you  can.  You 
hurl  a  stone  at  him,  and  "No  you  did  n't!"  comes 
up  from  the  depth  of  his  retreat. 

In  February  another  track  appears  upon  the 
snow,  slender  and  delicate,  about  a  third  larger  than 
that  of  the  gray  squirrel,  indicating  no  haste  or 
speed,  but,  on  the  contrary,  denoting  the  most  im- 
perturbable ease  and  leisure,  the  footprints  so  close 
together  that  the  trail  appears  like  a  chain  of  curi- 
ously carved  links.  Sir  Mephitis  mephitica,  or, 
in  plain  English,  the  skunk,  has  awakened  from  his 
six  weeks'  nap,  and  come  out  into  society  again. 
He  is  a  nocturnal  traveler,  very  bold  and  impudent, 
coming  quite  up  to  the  barn  and  outbuildings,  and 
sometimes  taking  up  his  quarters  for  the  season 
under  the  haymow.  There  is  no  such  word  as  hurry 
in  his  dictionary,  as  you  may  see  by  his  path  upon 
the  snow.  He  has  a  very  sneaking,  insinuating 
way,  and  goes  creeping  about  the  fields  and  woods, 
never  once  in  a  perceptible  degree  altering  his  gait, 
and,  if  a  fence  crosses  his  course,  steers  for  a  break 
or  opening  to  avoid  climbing.  He  is  too  indolent 
22 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

even  to  dig  his  own  hole,  but  appropriates  that  of 
a  woodchuck,  or  hunts  out  a  crevice  in  the  rocks, 
from  which  he  extends  his  rambling  in  all  direc- 
tions, preferring  damp,  thawy  weather.  He  has 
very  little  discretion  or  cunning,  and  holds  a  trap 
in  utter  contempt,  stepping  into  it  as  soon  as  be- 
side it,  relying  implicitly  for  defense  against  all 
forms  of  danger  upon  the  unsavory  punishment  he 
is  capable  of  inflicting.  He  is  quite  indifferent  to 
both  man  and  beast,  and  will  not  hurry  himself  to 
get  out  of  the  way  of  either.  Walking  through  the 
summer  fields  at  twilight,  I  have  come  near  step- 
ping upon  him,  and  was  much  the  more  disturbed 
of  the  two.  When  attacked  in  the  open  field  he 
confounds  the  plans  of  his  enemies  by  the  unheard- 
of  tactics  of  exposing  his  rear  rather  than  his  front. 
"Come  if  you  dare,"  he  says,  and  his  attitude 
makes  even  the  farm-dog  pause.  After  a  few  en- 
counters of  this  kind,  and  if  you  entertain  the  usual 
hostility  towards  him,  your  mode  of  attack  will 
speedily  resolve  itself  into  moving  about  him  in  a 
circle,  the  radius  of  which  will  be  the  exact  distance 
at  which  you  can  hurl  a  stone  with  accuracy  and 
effect. 

He  has  a  secret  to  keep  and  knows  it,  and  is 
careful  not  to  betray  himself  until  he  can  do  so  with 
the  most  telling  effect.  I  have  known  him  to  pre- 
serve his  serenity  even  when  caught  in  a  steel  trap, 
and  look  the  very  picture  of  injured  innocence, 
23 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

manoeuvring  carefully  and  deliberately  to  extricate 
his  foot  from  the  grasp  of  the  naughty  jaws.  Do 
not  by  any  means  take  pity  on  him,  and  lend  a 
helping  hand! 

How  pretty  his  face  and  head!  How  fine  and 
delicate  his  teeth,  like  a  weasel's  or  a  cat's!  When 
about  a  third  grown,  he  looks  so  well  that  one  cov- 
ets him  for  a  pet.  He  is  quite  precocious,  however, 
and  capable,  even  at  this  tender  age,  of  making  a 
very  strong  appeal  to  your  sense  of  smell. 

No  animal  is  more  cleanly  in  his  habits  than  he. 
He  is  not  an  awkward  boy  who  cuts  his  own  face 
with  his  whip;  and  neither  his  flesh  nor  his  fur 
hints  the  weapon  with  which  he  is  armed.  The 
most  silent  creature  known  to  me,  he  makes  no 
sound,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  save  a  diffuse, 
impatient  noise,  like  that  produced  by  beating  your 
hand  with  a  whisk-broom,  when  the  farm-dog  has 
discovered  his  retreat  in  the  stone  fence.  He  ren- 
ders himself  obnoxious  to  the  farmer  by  his  par- 
tiality for  hens'  eggs  and  young  poultry.  He  is  a 
confirmed  epicure,  and  at  plundering  hen-roosts  an 
expert.  Not  the  full-grown  fowls  are  his  victims, 
but  the  youngest  and  most  tender.  At  night  Mother 
Hen  receives  under  her  maternal  wings  a  dozen 
newly  hatched  chickens,  and  with  much  pride  and 
satisfaction  feels  them  all  safely  tucked  away  in  her 
feathers.  In  the  morning  she  is  walking  about  dis- 
consolately, attended  by  only  two  or  three  of  all 
24 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

that  pretty  brood.  What  has  happened?  Where 
are  they  gone?  That  pickpocket,  Sir  Mephitis, 
could  solve  the  mystery.  Quietly  has  he  approached, 
under  cover  of  darkness,  and  one  by  one  relieved 
her  of  her  precious  charge.  Look  closely  and  you 
will  see  their  little  yellow  legs  and  beaks,  or  part 
of  a  mangled  form,  lying  about  on  the  ground.  Or, 
before  the  hen  has  hatched,  he  may  find  her  out, 
and,  by  the  same  sleight  of  hand,  remove  every  egg, 
leaving  only  the  empty  blood-stained  shells  to  wit- 
ness against  him.  The  birds,  especially  the  ground- 
builders,  suffer  in  like  manner  from  his  plundering 
propensities. 

The  secretion  upon  which  he  relies  for  defense, 
and  which  is  the  chief  source  of  his  unpopularity, 
while  it  affords  good  reasons  against  cultivating  him 
as  a  pet,  and  mars  his  attractiveness  as  game,  is  by 
no  means  the  greatest  indignity  that  can  be  offered 
to  a  nose.  It  is  a  rank,  living  smell,  and  has  none 
of  the  sickening  qualities  of  disease  or  putrefaction. 
Indeed,  I  think  a  good  smeller  will  enjoy  its  most 
refined  intensity.  It  approaches  the  sublime,  and 
makes  the  nose  tingle.  It  is  tonic  and  bracing,  and, 
I  can  readily  believe,  has  rare  medicinal  qualities. 
I  do  not  recommend  its  use  as  eyewater,  though  an 
old  farmer  assures  me  it  has  undoubted  virtues  when 
thus  applied.  Hearing,  one  night,  a  disturbance 
among  his  hens,  he  rushed  suddenly  out  to  catch 
the  thief,  when  Sir  Mephitis,  taken  by  surprise,  and 
25 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

no  doubt  much  annoyed  at  being  interrupted,  dis- 
charged the  vials  of  his  wrath  full  in  the  farmer's 
face,  and  with  such  admirable  effect  that,  for  a  few 
moments,  he  was  completely  blinded,  and  powerless 
to  revenge  himself  upon  the  rogue,  who  embraced 
the  opportunity  to  make  good  his  escape;  but  he 
declared  that  afterwards  his  eyes  felt  as  if  purged 
by  fire,  and  his  sight  was  much  clearer. 

In  March  that  brief  summary  of  a  bear,  the  rac- 
coon, comes  out  of  his  den  in  the  ledges,  and  leaves 
his  sharp  digitigrade  track  upon  the  snow,  —  trav- 
eling not  unfrequently  in  pairs,  —  a  lean,  hungry 
couple,  bent  on  pillage  and  plunder.  They  have 
an  unenviable  time  of  it,  —  feasting  in  the  summer 
and  fall,  hibernating  in  winter,  and  starving  in 
spring.  In  April  I  have  found  the  young  of  the 
previous  year  creeping  about  the  fields,  so  reduced 
by  starvation  as  to  be  quite  helpless,  and  offering 
no  resistance  to  my  taking  them  up  by  the  tail  and 
carrying  them  home. 

The  old  ones  also  become  very  much  emaciated, 
and  come  boldly  up  to  the  barn  or  other  outbuild- 
ings in  quest  of  food.  I  remember,  one  morning  in 
early  spring,  of  hearing  old  Cuff,  the  farm-dog,  bark- 
ing vociferously  before  it  was  yet  light.  When  we 
got  up  we  discovered  him,  at  the  foot  of  an  ash-tree 
standing  about  thirty  rods  from  the  house,  looking 
up  at  some  gray  object  in  the  leafless  branches,  and 
by  his  manners  and  his  voice  evincing  great  impa- 
26 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

tience  that  we  were  so  tardy  in  coming  to  his  assist- 
ance. Arrived  on  the  spot,  we  saw  in  the  tree  a 
coon  of  unusual  size.  One  bold  climber  proposed 
to  go  up  and  shake  him  down.  This  was  what  old 
Cuff  wanted,  and  he  fairly  bounded  with  delight 
as  he  saw  his  young  master  shinning  up  the  tree. 
Approaching  within  eight  or  ten  feet  of  the  coon, 
he  seized  the  branch  to  which  it  clung  and  shook 
long  and  fiercely.  But  the  coon  was  in  no  danger 
of  losing  its  hold,  and,  when  the  climber  paused  to 
renew  his  hold,  it  turned  toward  him  with  a  growl, 
and  showed  very  clearly  a  purpose  to  advance  to  the 
attack.  This  caused  his  pursuer  to  descend  to  the 
ground  with  all  speed.  When  the  coon  was  finally 
brought  down  with  a  gun,  he  fought  the  dog,  which 
was  a  large,  powerful  animal,  with  great  fury,  re- 
turning bite  for  bite  for  some  moments;  and  after 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  elapsed  and  his  unequal 
antagonist  had  shaken  him  as  a  terrier  does  a  rat, 
making  his  teeth  meet  through  the  small  of  his 
back,  the  coon  still  showed  fight. 

They  are  very  tenacious  of  life,  and  like  the 
badger  will  always  whip  a  dog  of  their  own  size  and 
weight.  A  woodchuck  can  bite  severely,  having 
teeth  that  cut  like  chisels,  but  a  coon  has  agility 
and  power  of  limb  as  well. 

They  are  considered  game  only  in  the  fall,  or 
towards  the  close  of  summer,  when  they  become  fat 
and  their  flesh  sweet.  At  this  time,  cooning  in  the 
27 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

remote  interior  is  a  famous  pastime.  As  this  animal 
is  entirely  nocturnal  in  its  habits,  it  is  hunted  only 
at  night.  A  piece  of  corn  on  some  remote  side-hill 
near  the  mountain,  or  between  two  pieces  of  woods, 
is  most  apt  to  be  frequented  by  them.  While  the 
corn  is  yet  green  they  pull  the  ears  down  like  hogs, 
and,  tearing  open  the  sheathing  of  husks,  eat  the 
tender,  succulent  kernels,  bruising  and  destroying 
much  more  than  they  devour.  Sometimes  their 
ravages  are  a  matter  of  serious  concern  to  the  farmer. 
But  every  such  neighborhood  has  its  coon-dog,  and 
the  boys  and  young  men  dearly  love  the  sport. 
The  party  sets  out  about  eight  or  nine  o'clock  of  a 
dark,  moonless  night,  and  stealthily  approaches  the 
cornfield.  The  dog  knows  his  business,  and  when 
he  is  put  into  a  patch  of  corn  and  told  to  "  hunt  them 
up"  he  makes  a  thorough  search,  and  will  not  be 
misled  by  any  other  scent.  You  hear  him  rattling 
through  the  corn,  hither  and  yon,  with  great  speed. 
The  coons  prick  up  their  ears,  and  leave  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  field.  In  the  stillness  you  may 
sometimes  hear  a  single  stone  rattle  on  the  wall  as 
they  hurry  toward  the  woods.  If  the  dog  finds 
nothing,  he  comes  back  to  his  master  in  a  short  time, 
and  says  in  his  dumb  way,  "  No  coon  there."  But 
if  he  strikes  a  trail,  you  presently  hear  a  louder  rat- 
tling on  the  stone  wall,  and  then  a  hurried  bark  as 
he  enters  the  woods,  followed  in  a  few  minutes  by 
loud  and  repeated  barking  as  he  reaches  the  foot  of 
28 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

the  tree  in  which  the  coon  has  taken  refuge.  Then 
follows  a  pellmell  rush  of  the  cooning  party  up  the 
hill,  into  the  woods,  through  the  brush  and  the 
darkness,  falling  over  prostrate  trees,  pitching  into 
gullies  and  hollows,  losing  hats  and  tearing  clothes, 
till  finally,  guided  by  the  baying  of  the  faithful  dog, 
the  tree  is  reached.  The  first  thing  now  in  order 
is  to  kindle  a  fire,  and,  if  its  light  reveals  the  coon, 
to  shoot  him ;  if  not,  to  fell  the  tree  with  an  axe.  If 
this  happens  to  be  too  great  a  sacrifice  of  timber 
and  of  strength,  to  sit  down  at  the  foot  of  the  tree 
till  morning. 

But  with  March  our  interest  in  these  phases  of 
animal  life,  which  winter  has  so  emphasized  and 
brought  out,  begins  to  decline.  Vague  rumors  are 
afloat  in  the  air  of  a  great  and  coming  change.  We 
are  eager  for  Winter  to  be  gone,  since  he,  too,  is 
fugitive  and  cannot  keep  his  place.  Invisible  hands 
deface  his  icy  statuary;  his  chisel  has  lost  its  cun- 
ning. The  drifts,  so  pure  and  exquisite,  are  now 
earth-stained  and  weather-worn,  —  the  flutes  and 
scallops,  and  fine,  firm  lines,  all  gone;  and  what 
was  a  grace  and  an  ornament  to  the  hills  is  now  a 
disfiguration.  Like  worn  and  unwashed  linen  ap- 
pear the  remains  of  that  spotless  robe  with  which 
he  clothed  the  world  as  his  bride. 

But  he  will  not  abdicate  without  a  struggle.  Day 
after  day  he  rallies  his  scattered  forces,  and  night 
after  night  pitches  his  white  tents  on  the  hills,  and 
29 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

would  fain  regain  his  lost  ground;  but  the  young 
prince  in  every  encounter  prevails.  Slowly  and  re- 
luctantly the  gray  old  hero  retreats  up  the  moun- 
tain, till  finally  the  south  rain  comes  in  earnest,  and 
in  a  night  he  is  dead. 


II 

.  A  WHITE  DAY  AND  A  RED  FOX 


n 

A  WHITE   DAY  AND   A   RED   FOX 

rMHE  day  was  indeed  white,  as  white  as  three 
JL  feet  of  snow  and  a  cloudless  St.  Valentine's 
sun  could  make  it.  The  eye  could  not  look  forth 
without  blinking,  or  veiling  itself  with  tears.  The 
patch  of  plowed  ground  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  where 
the  wind  had  blown  the  snow  away,  was  as  wel- 
come to  it  as  water  to  a  parched  tongue.  It  was  the 
one  refreshing  oasis  in  this  desert  of  dazzling  light. 
I  sat  down  upon  it  to  let  the  eye  bathe  and  revel 
in  it.  It  took  away  the  smart  like  a  poultice.  For 
so  gentle  and  on  the  whole  so  beneficent  an  element, 
the  snow  asserts  itself  very  proudly.  It  takes  the 
world  quickly  and  entirely  to  itself.  It  makes  no 
concessions  or  compromises,  but  rules  despotically. 
It  baffles  and  bewilders  the  eye,  and  it  returns  the 
sun  glare  for  glare.  Its  coming  in  our  winter  climate 
is  the  hand  of  mercy  to  the  earth  and  to  everything 
in  its  bosom,  but  it  is  a  barrier  and  an  embargo  to 
everything  that  moves  above. 
We  toiled  up  the  long  steep  hill,  where  only  an 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

occasional  mullein-stalk  or  other  tall  weed  stood 
above  the  snow.  Near  the  top  the  hill  was  girded 
with  a  bank  of  snow  that  blotted  out  the  stone  wall 
and  every  vestige  of  the  earth  beneath.  These 
hills  wear  this  belt  till  May,  and  sometimes  the 
plow  pauses  beside  them.  From  the  top  of  the 
ridge  an  immense  landscape  in  immaculate  white 
stretches  before  us.  Miles  upon  miles  of  farms, 
smoothed  and  padded  by  the  stainless  element,  hang 
upon  the  sides  of  the  mountains,  or  repose  across 
the  long  sloping  hills.  The  fences  or  stone  walls 
show  like  half-obliterated  black  lines.  I  turn  my 
back  to  the  sun,  or  shade  my  eyes  with  my  hand. 
Every  object  or  movement  in  the  landscape  is 
sharply  revealed;  one  could  see  a  fox  half  a  league. 
The  farmer  foddering  his  cattle,  or  drawing  manure 
afield,  or  leading  his  horse  to  water;  the  pedestrian 
crossing  the  hill  below;  the  children  wending  their 
way  toward  the  distant  schoolhouse,  —  the  eye 
cannot  help  but  note  them:  they  are  black  specks 
upon  square  miles  of  luminous  white.  What  a 
multitude  of  sins  this  unstinted  charity  of  the  snow 
covers !  How  it  flatters  the  ground !  Yonder  sterile 
field  might  be  a  garden,  and  you  would  never  sus- 
pect that  that  gentle  slope  with  its  pretty  dimples 
and  curves  was  not  the  smoothest  of  meadows,  yet 
it  is  paved  with  rocks  and  stone. 

But  what  is  that  black  speck  creeping  across  that 
cleared  field  near  the  top  of  the  mountain  at  the 
34 


THE   DOWXLOOK  FROM  A   HIGH   HILLSIDE 


A  WHITE  DAY  AND  A  RED  FOX 

head  of  the  valley,  three  quarters  of  a  mile  away  ? 
It  is  like  a  fly  moving  across  an  illuminated  surface. 
A  distant  mellow  bay  floats  to  us,  and  we  know  it 
is  the  hound.  He  picked  up  the  trail  of  the  fox 
half  an  hour  since,  where  he  had  crossed  the  ridge 
early  in  the  morning,  and  now  he  has  routed  him 
and  Reynard  is  steering  for  the  Big  Mountain. 
We  press  on  and  attain  the  shoulder  of  the  range, 
where  we  strike  a  trail  two  or  three  days  old  of 
some  former  hunters,  which  leads  us  into  the  woods 
along  the  side  of  the  mountain.  We  are  on  the 
first  plateau  before  the  summit;  the  snow  partly 
supports  us,  but  when  it  gives  way  and  we  sound 
it  with  our  legs,  we  find  it  up  to  our  hips.  Here 
we  enter  a  white  world  indeed.  It  is  like  some 
conjurer's  trick.  The  very  trees  have  turned  to 
snow.  The  smallest  branch  is  like  a  cluster  of  great 
white  antlers.  The  eye  is  bewildered  by  the  soft 
fleecy  labyrinth  before  it.  On  the  lower  ranges  the 
forests  were  entirely  bare,  but  now  we  perceive  the 
summit  of  every  mountain  about  us  runs  up  into 
a  kind  of  arctic  region  where  the  trees  are  loaded 
with  snow.  The  beginning  of  this  colder  zone  is 
sharply  marked  all  around  the  horizon  ;  the  line 
runs  as  level  as  the  shore  line  of  a  lake  or  sea;  in- 
deed, a  warmer  aerial  sea  fills  all  the  valleys,  sub- 
merging the  lower  peaks,  and  making  white  islands 
of  all  the  higher  ones.  The  branches  bend  with 
the  rime.  The  winds  have  not  shaken  it  down. 
35 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

It  adheres  to  them  like  a  growth.  On  examination 
I  find  the  branches  coated  with  ice,  from  which 
shoot  slender  spikes  and  needles  that  penetrate  and 
hold  the  cord  of  snow.  It  is  a  new  kind  of  foliage 
wrought  by  the  frost  and  the  clouds,  and  it  obscures 
the  sky,  and  fills  the  vistas  of  the  woods  nearly  as 
much  as  the  myriad  leaves  of  summer.  The  sun 
blazes,  the  sky  is  without  a  cloud  or  a  film,  yet  we 
walk  in  a  soft  white  shade.  A  gentle  breeze  was 
blowing  on  the  open  crest  of  the  mountain,  but  one 
could  carry  a  lighted  candle  through  these  snow- 
curtained  and  snow-canopied  chambers.  How  shall 
we  see  the  fox  if  the  hound  drives  him  through  this 
white  obscurity?  But  we  listen  in  vain  for  the 
voice  of  the  dog  and  press  on.  Hares'  tracks  were 
numerous.  Their  great  soft  pads  had  left  their 
imprint  everywhere,  sometimes  showing  a  clear  leap 
of  ten  feet.  They  had  regular  circuits  which  we 
crossed  at  intervals.  The  woods  were  well  suited 
to  them,  low  and  dense,  and,  as  we  saw,  liable  at 
times  to  wear  a  livery  whiter  than  their  own. 

The  mice,  too,  how  thick  their  tracks  were,  that 
of  the  white-footed  mouse  being  most  abundant; 
but  occasionally  there  was  a  much  finer  track,  with 
strides  or  leaps  scarcely  more  than  an  inch  apart. 
This  is  perhaps  the  little  shrew-mouse  of  the  woods, 
the  body  not  more  than  an  inch  and  a  half  long, 
the  smallest  mole  or  mouse  kind  known  to  me. 
Once,  while  encamping  in  the  woods,  one  of  these 
36 


A  WHITE  DAY  AND  A  RED  FOX 

tiny  shrews  got  into  an  empty  pail  standing  in 
camp,  and  died  before  morning,  either  from  the 
cold,  or  in  despair  of  ever  getting  out  of  the  pail. 

At  one  point,  around  a  small  sugar  maple,  the 
mice-tracks  are  unusually  thick.  It  is  doubtless 
their  granary ;  they  have  beech-nuts  stored  there, 
I'll  warrant.  There  are  two  entrances  to  the  cav- 
ity of  the  tree,  —  one  at  the  base,  and  one  seven  or 
eight  feet  up.  At  the  upper  one,  which  is  only  just  the 
size  of  a  mouse,  a  squirrel  has  been  trying  to  break 
in.  He  has  cut  and  chiseled  the  solid  wood  to  the 
depth  of  nearly  an  inch,  and  his  chips  strew  the 
snow  all  about.  He  knows  what  is  in  there,  and 
the  mice  know  that  he  knows;  hence  their  appar- 
ent consternation.  They  have  rushed  wildly  about 
over  the  snow,  and,  I  doubt  not,  have  given  the 
piratical  red  squirrel  a  piece  of  their  minds.  A  few 
yards  away  the  mice  have  a  hole  down  into  the 
snow,  which  perhaps  leads  to  some  snug  den  under 
the  ground.  Hither  they  may  have  been  slyly  re- 
moving their  stores  while  the  squirrel  was  at  work 
with  his  back  turned.  One  more  night  and  he  will 
effect  an  entrance :  what  a  good  joke  upon  him  if 
he  finds  the  cavity  empty !  These  native  mice  are 
very  provident,  and,  I  imagine,  have  to  take  many 
precautions  to  prevent  their  winter  stores  being 
plundered  by  the  squirrels,  who  live,  as  it  were, 
from  hand  to  mouth. 

We  see  several  fresh  fox-tracks,  and  wish  for  the 
37 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

hound,  but  there  are  no  tidings  of  him.  After  half 
an  hour's  floundering  and  cautiously  picking  our 
way  through  the  woods,  we  emerge  into  a  cleared 
field  that  stretches  up  from  the  valley  below,  and 
just  laps  over  the  back  of  the  mountain.  It  is  a 
broad  belt  of  white  that  drops  down  and  down  till 
it  joins  other  fields  that  sweep  along  the  base  of 
the  mountain,  a  mile  away.  To  the  east,  through 
a  deep  defile  in  the  mountains,  a  landscape  in  an 
adjoining  county  lifts  itself  up,  like  a  bank  of 
white  and  gray  clouds. 

When  the  experienced  fox-hunter  comes  out  upon 
such  an  eminence  as  this,  he  always  scrutinizes  the 
fields  closely  that  lie  beneath  him,  and  it  many 
times  happens  that  his  sharp  eye  detects  Reynard 
asleep  upon  a  rock  or  a  stone  wall,  in  which  case,  if 
he  be  armed  with  a  rifle  and  his  dog  be  not  near,  the 
poor  creature  never  wakens  from  his  slumber.  The 
fox  nearly  always  takes  his  nap  in  the  open  fields, 
along  the  sides  of  the  ridges,  or  under  the  mountain, 
where  he  can  look  down  upon  the  busy  farms  be- 
neath and  hear  their  many  sounds,  the  barking  of 
dogs,  the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  cackling  of  hens,  the 
voices  of  men  and  boys,  or  the  sound  of  travel  upon 
the  highway.  It  is  on  that  side,  too,  that  he  keeps 
the  sharpest  lookout,  and  the  appearance  of  the 
hunter  above  and  behind  him  is  always  a  surprise. 

We  pause  here,  and,  with  alert  ears  turned 
toward  the  Big  Mountain  in  front  of  us,  listen  for 
38 


A  WHITE  DAY  AND  A  RED  FOX 

the  dog.  But  not  a  sound  is  heard.  A  flock  of  snow 
buntings  pass  high  above  us,  uttering  their  contented 
twitter,  and  their  white  forms  seen  against  the  in- 
tense blue  give  the  impression  of  large  snowflakes 
drifting  across  the  sky.  I  hear  a  purple  finch,  too, 
and  the  feeble  lisp  of  the  redpoll.  A  shrike  (the 
first  I  have  seen  this  season)  finds  occasion  to  come 
this  way  also.  He  alights  on  the  tip  of  a  dry  limb, 
and  from  his  perch  can  see  into  the  valley  on  both 
sides  of  the  mountain.  He  is  prowling  about  for 
chickadees,  no  doubt,  a  troop  of  which  I  saw  com- 
ing through  the  wood.  When  pursued  by  the  shrike, 
the  chickadee  has  been  seen  to  take  refuge  in  a 
squirrel-hole  in  a  tree.  Hark!  Is  that  the  hound, 
or  doth  expectation  mock  the  eager  ear?  With 
open  mouths  and  bated  breaths  we  listen.  Yes, 
it  is  old  "Singer;"  he  is  bringing  the  fox  over  the 
top  of  the  range  toward  Butt  End,  the  Ultima  Thule 
of  the  hunters'  tramps  in  this  section.  In  a  moment 
or  two  the  dog  is  lost  to  hearing  again.  We  wait 
for  his  second  turn ;  then  for  his  third. 

"He  is  playing  about  the  summit,"  says  my 
companion. 

"  Let  us  go  there,"  say  I,  and  we  are  off. 

More  dense  snow-hung  woods  beyond  the  clear- 
ing where  we  begin  our  ascent  of  the  Big  Mountain, 
—  a  chief  that  carries  the  range  up  several  hundred 
feet  higher  than  the  part  we  have  thus  far  traversed. 
We  are  occasionally  to  our  hips  in  the  snow,  but 
39 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

for  the  most  part  the  older  stratum,  a  foot  or  so 
down,  bears  us ;  up  and  up  we  go  into  the  dim, 
muffled  solitudes,  our  hats  and  coats  powdered  like 
millers'.  A  half-hour's  heavy  tramping  brings  us 
to  the  broad,  level  summit,  and  to  where  the  fox 
and  hound  have  crossed  and  recrossed  many  times. 
As  we  are  walking  along  discussing  the  matter, 
we  suddenly  hear  the  dog  coming  straight  on  to  us. 
The  woods  are  so  choked  with  snow  that  we  do  not 
hear  him  till  he  breaks  up  from  under  the  mountain 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  us. 

"We  have  turned  the  fox!"  we  both  exclaim, 
much  put  out. 

Sure  enough,  we  have.  The  dog  appears  in  sight, 
is  puzzled  a  moment,  then  turns  sharply  to  the  left, 
and  is  lost  to  eye  and  to  ear  as  quickly  as  if  he 
had  plunged  into  a  cave.  The  woods  are,  indeed, 
a  kind  of  cave,  —  a  cave  of  alabaster,  with  the  sun 
shining  upon  it.  We  take  up  positions  and  wait. 
These  old  hunters  know  exactly  where  to  stand. 

"If  the  fox  comes  back,"  said  my  companion, 
"he  will  cross  up  there  or  down  here,"  indicating 
two  points  not  twenty  rods  asunder. 

We  stood  so  that  each  commanded  one  of  the 
runways  indicated.  How  light  it  was,  though  the 
sun  was  hidden!  Every  branch  and  twig  beamed 
in  the  sun  like  a  lamp.  A  downy  woodpecker  below 
me  kept  up  a  great  fuss  and  clatter,  —  all  for  my 
benefit,  I  suspected.  All  about  me  were  great,  soft 
40 


A  WHITE  DAY  AND  A  RED  FOX 

mounds,  where  the  rocks  lay  buried.  It  was  a  ceme- 
tery of  drift  boulders.  There!  that  is  the  hound. 
Does  his  voice  come  across  the  valley  from  the 
spur  off  against  us,  or  is  it  on  our  side  down  under 
the  mountain  ?  After  an  interval,  just  as  I  am 
thinking  the  dog  is  going  away  from  us  along  the 
opposite  range,  his  voice  comes  up  astonishingly 
near.  A  mass  of  snow  falls  from  a  branch,  and 
makes  one  start;  but  it  is  not  the  fox.  Then  through 
the  white  vista  below  me  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  some- 
thing red  or  yellow,  yellowish  red  or  reddish  yellow; 
it  emerges  from  the  lower  ground,  and,  with  an 
easy,  jaunty  air,  draws  near.  I  am  ready  and  just 
in  the  mood  to  make  a  good  shot.  The  fox  stops 
just  out  of  range  and  listens  for  the  hound.  He 
looks  as  bright  as  an  autumn  leaf  upon  the  spot- 
less surface.  Then  he  starts  on,  but  he  is  not  com- 
ing to  me,  he  is  going  to  the  other  man.  Oh,  foolish 
fox,  you  are  going  straight  into  the  jaws  of  death! 
My  comrade  stands  just  there  beside  that  tree. 
I  would  gladly  have  given  Reynard  the  wink,  or 
signaled  to  him,  if  I  could.  It  did  seem  a  pity  to 
shoot  him,  now  he  was  out  of  my  reach.  I  cringe 
for  him,  when  crack  goes  the  gun !  The  fox  squalls, 
picks  himself  up,  and  plunges  over  the  brink  of 
the  mountain.  The  hunter  has  not  missed  his  aim, 
but  the  oil  in  his  gun,  he  says,  has  weakened  the 
strength  of  his  powder.  The  hound,  hearing  the 
report,  comes  like  a  whirlwind  and  is  off  in  hot 
41 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

pursuit.    Both  fox  and  dog  now  bleed,  —  the  dog 
at  his  heels,  the  fox  from  his  wounds. 

In  a  few  minutes  there  came  up  from  under  the 
mountain  that  long,  peculiar  bark  which  the  hound 
always  makes  when  he  has  run  the  fox  in,  or  when 
something  new  and  extraordinary  has  happened. 
In  this  instance  he  said  plainly  enough,  "  The  race 
is  up,  the  coward  has  taken  to  his  hole,  ho-o-o-le." 
Plunging  down  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  the 
snow  literally  to  our  waists,  we  were  soon  at  the 
spot,  a  great  ledge  thatched  over  with  three  or  four 
feet  of  snow.  The  dog  was  alternately  licking  his 
heels  and  whining  and  berating  the  fox.  The 
opening  into  which  the  latter  had  fled  was  partially 
closed,  and,  as  I  scraped  out  and  cleared  away  the 
snow,  I  thought  of  the  familiar  saying,  that  so  far 
as  the  sun  shines  in,  the  snow  will  blow  in.  The 
fox,  I  suspect,  has  always  his  house  of  refuge,  or 
knows  at  once  where  to  flee  to  if  hard  pressed. 
This  place  proved  to  be  a  large  vertical  seam  in  the 
rock,  into  which  the  dog,  on  a  little  encouragement 
from  his  master,  made  his  way.  I  thrust  my  head 
into  the  ledge's  mouth,  and  in  the  dim  light  watched 
the  dog.  He  progressed  slowly  and  cautiously  till 
only  his  bleeding  heels  were  visible.  Here  some 
obstacle  impeded  him  a  few  moments,  when  he 
entirely  disappeared  and  was  presently  face  to  face 
with  the  fox  and  engaged  in  mortal  combat  with 
him.  It  is  a  fierce  encounter  there  beneath  the 


THE   FOX-HUNTER  AND   HIS   HOUND 


A  WHITE  DAY  AND  A  RED  FOX 

rocks,  the  fox  silent,  the  dog  very  vociferous.  But 
after  a  time  the  superior  weight  and  strength  of  the 
latter  prevails  and  the  fox  is  brought  to  light  nearly 
dead.  Reynard  winks  and  eyes  me  suspiciously, 
as  I  stroke  his  head  and  praise  his  heroic  defense; 
but  the  hunter  quickly  and  mercifully  puts  an  end 
to  his  fast-ebbing  life.  His  canine  teeth  seem  un- 
usually large  and  formidable,  and  the  dog  bears 
the  marks  of  them  in  many  deep  gashes  upon  his 
face  and  nose.  His  pelt  is  quickly  stripped  off, 
revealing  his  lean,  sinewy  form. 

The  fox  was  not  as  poor  in  flesh  as  I  expected 
to  see  him,  though  I  '11  warrant  he  had  tasted  very 
little  food  for  days,  perhaps  for  weeks.  How  his 
great  activity  and  endurance  can  be  kept  up,  on 
the  spare  diet  he  must  of  necessity  be  confined  to, 
is  a  mystery.  Snow,  snow  everywhere,  for  weeks 
and  for  months,  and  intense  cold,  and  no  henroost 
accessible,  and  no  carcass  of  sheep  or  pig  in  the 
neighborhood!  The  hunter,  tramping  miles  and 
leagues  through  his  haunts,  rarely  sees  any  sign  of 
his  having  caught  anything.  Rarely,  though,  in  the 
course  of  many  winters,  he  may  have  seen  evidence 
of  his  having  surprised  a  rabbit  or  a  partridge  in 
the  woods.  He  no  doubt  at  this  season  lives  largely 
upon  the  memory  (or  the  fat)  of  the  many  good 
dinners  he  had  in  the  plentiful  summer  and  fall. 

As  we  crossed  the  mountain  on  our  return,  we 
saw  at  one  point  blood-stains  upon  the  snow,  and, 
43 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

as  the  fox-tracks  were  very  thick  on  and  about  it, 
we  concluded  that  a  couple  of  males  had  had  an 
encounter  there,  and  a  pretty  sharp  one.  Reynard 
goes  a-wooing  in  February,  and  it  is  to  be  presumed 
that,  like  other  dogs,  he  is  a  jealous  lover.  A  crow 
had  alighted  and  examined  the  blood-stains,  and 
now,  if  he  will  look  a  little  farther  along,  upon  a 
flat  rock  he  will  find  the  flesh  he  was  looking  for. 
Our  hound's  nose  was  so  blunted  now,  speaking 
without  metaphor,  that  he  would  not  look  at  another 
trail,  but  hurried  home  to  rest  upon  his  laurels. 


Ill 

PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE 


in 

PHASES  OF  FARM  LIFE 

I  HAVE  thought  that  a  good  test  of  civilization, 
perhaps  one  of  the  best,  is  country  life.  Where 
country  life  is  safe  and  enjoyable,  where  many  of 
the  conveniences  and  appliances  of  the  town  are 
joined  to  the  large  freedom  and  large  benefits  of 
the  country,  a  high  state  of  civilization  prevails.  Is 
there  any  proper  country  life  in  Spain,  in  Mexico, 
in  the  South  American  States?  Man  has  always 
dwelt  in  cities,  but  he  has  not  always  in  the  same 
sense  been  a  dweller  in  the  country.  Rude  and  bar- 
barous people  build  cities.  Hence,  paradoxical  as  it 
may  seem,  the  city  is  older  than  the  country.  Truly, 
man  made  the  city,  and  after  he  became  sufficiently 
civilized,  not  afraid  of  solitude,  and  knew  on  what 
terms  to  live  with  nature,  God  promoted  him  to  life 
in  the  country.  The  necessities  of  defense,  the  fear 
of  enemies,  built  the  first  city,  built  Athens,  Rome, 
Carthage,  Paris.  The  weaker  the  law,  the  stronger 
the  city.  After  Cain  slew  Abel  he  went  out  and 
built  a  city,  and  murder  or  the  fear  of  murder,  rob- 
bery or  the  fear  of  robbery,  have  built  most  of  the 
cities  since.  Penetrate  into  the  heart  of  Africa,  and 
47 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

you  will  find  the  people,  or  tribes,  all  living  in  vil- 
lages or  little  cities.  You  step  from  the  jungle  or 
the  forest  into  the  town;  there  is  no  country.  The 
best  and  most  hopeful  feature  in  any  people  is  un- 
doubtedly the  instinct  that  leads  them  to  the  country 
and  to  take  root  there,  and  not  that  which  sends 
them  flocking  to  the  town  and  its  distractions. 

The  lighter  the  snow,  the  more  it  drifts;  and  the 
more  frivolous  the  people,  the  more  they  are  blown 
by  one  wind  or  another  into  towns  and  cities. 

The  only  notable  exception  I  recall  to  city  life 
preceding  country  life  is  furnished  by  the  ancient 
Germans,  of  whom  Tacitus  says  that  they  had 
no  cities  or  contiguous  settlements.  "They  dwell 
scattered  and  separate,  as  a  spring,  a  meadow,  or 
a  grove  may  chance  to  invite  them.  Their  villages 
are  laid  out,  not  like  ours  [the  Romans]  in  rows  of 
adjoining  buildings,  but  every  one  surrounds  his 
house  with  a  vacant  space,  either  by  way  of  security, 
or  against  fire,  or  through  ignorance  of  the  art  of 
building." 

These  ancient  Germans  were  indeed  true  country- 
men. Little  wonder  that  they  overran  the  empire 
of  the  city-loving  Romans,  and  finally  sacked  Rome 
itself.  How  hairy  and  hardy  and  virile  they  were! 
In  the  same  way  is  the  more  fresh  and  vigorous 
blood  of  the  country  always  making  eruptions  into 
the  city.  The  Goths  and  Vandals  from  the  woods 
and  the  farms,  —  what  would  Rome  do  without 
48 


PHASES   OF   FARM    LIFE 

them,  after  all  ?  The  city  rapidly  uses  men  up ; 
families  run  out,  man  becomes  sophisticated  and 
feeble.  A  fresh  stream  of  humanity  is  always  set- 
ting from  the  country  into  the  city;  a  stream  not 
so  fresh  flows  back  again  into  the  country,  a  stream 
for  the  most  part  of  jaded  and  pale  humanity.  It 
is  arterial  blood  when  it  flows  in,  and  venous  blood 
when  it  comes  back. 

A  nation  always  begins  to  rot  first  in  its  great 
cities,  is  indeed  perhaps  always  rotting  there,  and 
is  saved  only  by  the  antiseptic  virtues  of  fresh  sup- 
plies of  country  blood. 

But  it  is  not  of  country  life  in  general  that  I  am 
to  speak,  but  of  some  phases  of  farm  life,  and  of 
farm  life  in  my  native  State. 

Many  of  the  early  settlers  of  New  York  were 
from  New  England,  Connecticut  perhaps  sending 
out  the  most.  My  own  ancestors  were  from  the 
latter  State.  The  Connecticut  emigrant  usually 
made  his  first  stop  in  our  river  counties,  Putnam, 
Dutchess,  or  Columbia.  If  he  failed  to  find  his 
place  there,  he  made  another  flight  to  Orange,  to 
Delaware,  or  to  Schoharie  County,  where  he  gener- 
ally stuck.  But  the  State  early  had  one  element 
introduced  into  its  rural  and  farm  life  not  found 
farther  east,  namely,  the  Holland  Dutch.  These 
gave  features  more  or  less  picturesque  to  the  coun- 
try that  are  not  observable  in  New  England.  The 
49 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

Dutch  took  root  at  various  points  along  the  Hud- 
son, and  about  Albany  and  in  the  Mohawk  valley, 
and  remnants  of  their  rural  and  domestic  architec- 
ture may  still  be  seen  in  these  sections  of  the  State. 
A  Dutch  barn  became  proverbial.  "  As  broad  as  a 
Dutch  barn  "  was  a  phrase  that,  when  applied  to 
the  person  of  a  man  or  woman,  left  room  for  little 
more  to  be  said.  The  main  feature  of  these  barns 
was  their  enormous  expansion  of  roof.  It  was  a 
comfort  to  look  at  them,  they  suggested  such  shel- 
ter and  protection.  The  eaves  were  very  low  and 
the  ridge-pole  very  high.  Long  rafters  and  short 
posts  gave  them  a  quaint,  short-waisted,  grandmo- 
therly look.  They  were  nearly  square,  and  stood 
very  broad  upon  the  ground.  Their  form  was 
doubtless  suggested  by  the  damper  climate  of  the 
Old  World,  where  the  grain  and  hay,  instead  of 
being  packed  in  deep  solid  mows,  used  to  be  spread 
upon  poles  and  exposed  to  the  currents  of  air  under 
the  roof.  Surface  and  not  cubic  capacity  is  more 
important  in  these  matters  in  Holland  than  in  this 
country.  Our  farmers  have  found  that,  in  a  climate 
where  there  is  so  much  weather  as  with  us,  the  less 
roof  you  have  the  better.  Roofs  will  leak,  and  cured 
hay  will  keep  sweet  in  a  mow  of  any  depth  and  size 
in  our  dry  atmosphere. 

The  Dutch  barn  was  the  most  picturesque  barn 
that  has  been  built,  especially  when  thatched  with 
straw,  as  they  nearly  all  were,  and  forming  one  side 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE 

of  an  inclosure  of  lower  roofs  or  sheds  also  covered 
with  straw,  beneath  which  the  cattle  took  refuge 
from  the  winter  storms.  Its  immense,  unpainted 
gable,  cut  with  holes  for  the  swallows,  was  like  a 
section  of  a  respectable-sized  hill,  and  its  roof  like 
its  slope.  Its  great  doors  always  had  a  hood  pro- 
jecting over  them,  and  the  doors  themselves  were 
divided  horizontally  into  upper  and  lower  halves; 
the  upper  halves  very  frequently  being  left  open, 
through  which  you  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  mows 
of  hay,  or  the  twinkle  of  flails  when  the  grain  was 
being  threshed. 

The  old  Dutch  farmhouses,  too,  were  always 
pleasing  to  look  upon.  They  were  low,  often  made 
of  stone,  with  deep  window- jambs  and  great  family 
fireplaces.  The  outside  door,  like  that  of  the  barn, 
was  always  divided  into  upper  and  lower  halves. 
When  the  weather  permitted,  the  upper  half  could 
stand  open,  giving  light  and  air  without  the  cold 
draught  over  the  floor  where  the  children  were 
playing  that  our  wide-swung  doors  admit.  This 
feature  of  the  Dutch  house  and  barn  certainly 
merits  preservation  in  our  modern  buildings. 

The  large,  unpainted  timber  barns  that  succeeded 
the  first  Yankee  settlers'  log  stables  were  also  pic- 
turesque, especially  when  a  lean-to  for  the  cow- 
stable  was  added,  and  the  roof  carried  down  with  a 
long  sweep  over  it  ;  or  when  the  barn  was  flanked 
by  an  open  shed  with  a  hayloft  above  it,  where  the 
51 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

hens  cackled  and  hid  their  nests,  and  from  the  open 
window  of  which  the  hay  was  always  hanging. 

Then  the  great  timbers  of  these  barns  and  the 
Dutch  barn ,  hewn  from  maple  or  birch  or  oak  trees 
from  the  primitive  woods,  and  put  in  place  by  the 
combined  strength  of  all  the  brawny  arms  in  the 
neighborhood  when  the  barn  was  raised,  —  timbers 
strong  enough  and  heavy  enough  for  docks  and 
quays,  and  that  have  absorbed  the  odors  of  the  hay 
and  grain  until  they  look  ripe  and  mellow  and  full 
of  the  pleasing  sentiment  of  the  great,  sturdy,  boun- 
tiful interior!  The  "  big  beam  "  has  become  smooth 
and  polished  from  the  hay  that  has  been  pitched 
over  it,  and  the  sweaty,  sturdy  forms  that  have 
crossed  it.  One  feels  that  he  would  like  a  piece  of 
furniture  —  a  chair,  or  a  table,  or  a  writing-desk,  a 
bedstead,  or  a  wainscoting  —  made  from  these  long- 
seasoned,  long-tried,  richly  toned  timbers  of  the 
old  barn.  But  the  smart-painted,  natty  barn  that 
follows  the  humbler  structure,  with  its  glazed  win- 
dows, its  ornamented  ventilator  and  gilded  weather 
vane, —  who  cares  to  contemplate  it?  The  wise 
human  eye  loves  modesty  and  humility;  loves  plain, 
simple  structures;  loves  the  unpainted  barn  that 
took  no  thought  of  itself,  or  the  dwelling  that  looks 
inward  and  not  outward  ;  is  offended  when  the 
farm-buildings  get  above  their  business  and  aspire 
to  be  something  on  their  own  account,  suggesting, 
not  cattle  and  crops  and  plain  living,  but  the  vani- 
52 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE 

ties  of  the  town  and  the  pride  of  dress  and  equi- 
page. 

Indeed,  the  picturesque  in  human  affairs  and 
occupations  is  always  born  of  love  and  humility,  as 
it  is  in  art  or  literature;  and  it  quickly  takes  to 
itself  wings  and  flies  away  at  the  advent  of  pride, 
or  any  selfish  or  unworthy  motive.  The  more  di- 
rectly the  farm  savors  of  the  farmer,  the  more  the 
fields  and  buildings  are  redolent  of  human  care  and 
toil,  without  any  thought  of  the  passer-by,  the  more 
we  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  it. 

It  is  unquestionably  true  that  farm  life  and  farm 
scenes  in  this  country  are  less  picturesque  than  they 
were  fifty  or  one  hundred  years  ago.  This  is  owing 
partly  to  the  advent  of  machinery,  which  enables 
the  farmer  to  do  so  much  of  his  work  by  proxy, 
and  hence  removes  him  farther  from  the  soil,  and 
partly  to  the  growing  distaste  for  the  occupation 
among  our  people.  The  old  settlers  —  our  fathers 
and  grandfathers  —  loved  the  farm,  and  had  no 
thoughts  above  it ;  but  the  later  generations  are 
looking  to  the  town  and  its  fashions,  and  only  wait- 
ing for  a  chance  to  flee  thither.  Then  pioneer  life 
is  always  more  or  less  picturesque  ;  there  is  no 
room  for  vain  and  foolish  thoughts;  it  is  a  hard 
battle,  and  the  people  have  no  time  to  think  about 
appearances.  When  my  grandfather  and  grand- 
mother came  into  the  country  where  they  reared 
their  family  and  passed  their  days,  they  cut  a  road 
53 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

through  the  woods  and  brought  all  their  worldly 
gear  on  a  sled  drawn  by  a  yoke  of  oxen.  Their 
neighbors  helped  them  build  a  house  of  logs,  with 
a  roof  of  black-ash  bark  and  a  floor  of  hewn  white- 
ash  plank.  A  great  stone  chimney  and  fireplace 
—  the  mortar  of  red  clay  —  gave  light  and  warmth, 
and  cooked  the  meat  and  baked  the  bread,  when 
there  was  any  to  cook  or  to  bake.  Here  they  lived 
and  reared  their  family,  and  found  life  sweet. 
Their  unworthy  descendant,  yielding  to  the  inher- 
ited love  of  the  soil,  flees  the  city  and  its  artificial 
ways,  and  gets  a  few  acres  in  the  country,  where 
he  proposes  to  engage  in  the  pursuit  supposed  to 
be  free  to  every  American  citizen,  —  the  pursuit  of 
happiness.  The  humble  old  farmhouse  is  discarded, 
and  a  smart,  modern  country-house  put  up.  Walks 
and  roads  are  made  and  graveled ;  trees  and  hedges 
are  planted;  the  rustic  old  barn  is  rehabilitated; 
and,  after  it  is  all  fixed,  the  uneasy  proprietor 
stands  off  and  looks,  and  calculates  by  how  much 
he  has  missed  the  picturesque,  at  which  he  aimed. 
Our  new  houses  undoubtedly  have  greater  com- 
forts and  conveniences  than  the  old  ;  and,  if  we 
could  keep  our  pride  and  vanity  in  abeyance  and 
forget  that  all  the  world  is  looking  on,  they  might 
have  beauty  also. 

The  man  that  forgets  himself,  he  is  the  man  we 
like;  and  the  dwelling  that  forgets  itself,  in  its  pur- 
pose to  shelter  and  protect  its  inmates  and  make 
54 


PHASES    OF   FARM   LIFE 

them  feel  at  home  in  it,  is  the  dwelling  that  fills  the 
eye.  When  you  see  one  of  the  great  cathedrals, 
you  know  that  it  was  not  pride  that  animated  these 
builders,  but  fear  and  worship;  but  when  you  see 
the  house  of  the  rich  farmer,  or  of  the  millionaire 
from  the  city,  you  see  the  pride  of  money  and  the 
insolence  of  social  power. 

Machinery,  I  say,  has  taken  away  some  of  the 
picturesque  features  of  farm  life.  How  much  so- 
ever we  may  admire  machinery  and  the  faculty 
of  mechanical  invention,  there  is  no  machine  like 
a  man ;  and  the  work  done  directly  by  his  hands, 
the  things  made  or  fashioned  by  them,  have  a 
virtue  and  a  quality  that  cannot  be  imparted  by 
machinery.  The  line  of  mowers  in  the  meadows, 
with  the  straight  swaths  behind  them,  is  more  pic- 
turesque than  the  "  Clipper"  or  "  Buckeye  "  mower, 
with  its  team  and  driver.  So  are  the  flails  of  the 
threshers,  chasing  each  other  through  the  air,  more 
pleasing  to  the  eye  and  the  ear  than  the  machine, 
with  its  uproar,  its  choking  clouds  of  dust,  and  its 
general  hurly-burly. 

Sometimes  the  threshing  was  done  in  the  open 
air,  upon  a  broad  rock,  or  a  smooth,  dry  plat  of 
greensward;  and  it  is  occasionally  done  there  yet, 
especially  the  threshing  of  the  buckwheat  crop,  by 
a  farmer  who  has  not  a  good  barn  floor,  or  who 
cannot  afford  to  hire  the  machine.  The  flail  makes 
a  louder  thud  in  the  fields  than  you  would  imagine; 
55 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

and  in  the  splendid  October  weather  it  is  a  pleasing 
spectacle  to  behold  the  gathering  of  the  ruddy  crop, 
and  three  or  four  lithe  figures  beating  out  the  grain 
with  their  flails  in  some  sheltered  nook,  or  some 
grassy  lane  lined  with  cedars.  When  there  are 
three  flails  beating  together,  it  makes  lively  music; 
and  when  there  are  four,  they  follow  each  other  so 
fast  that  it  is  a  continuous  roll  of  sound,  and  it 
requires  a  very  steady  stroke  not  to  hit  or  get  hit 
by  the  others.  There  is  just  room  and  time  to  get 
your  blow  in,  and  that  is  all.  When  one  flail  is 
upon  the  straw,  another  has  just  left  it,  another  is 
halfway  down,  and  the  fourth  is  high  and  straight 
in  the  air.  It  is  like  a  swiftly  revolving  wheel  that 
delivers  four  blows  at  each  revolution.  Thresh- 
ing, like  mowing,  goes  much  easier  in  company 
than  when  alone;  yet  many  a  farmer  or  laborer 
spends  nearly  all  the  late  fall  and  winter  days  shut 
in  the  barn,  pounding  doggedly  upon  the  endless 
sheaves  of  oats  and  rye. 

When  the  farmers  made  "bees,"  as  they  did  a 
generation  or  two  ago  much  more  than  they  do 
now,  a  picturesque  element  was  added.  There  was 
the  stone  bee,  the  husking  bee,  the  "  raising,"  the 
"  moving,"  etc.  When  the  carpenters  had  got  the 
timbers  of  the  house  or  the  barn  ready,  and  the  foun- 
dation was  prepared,  then  the  neighbors  for  miles 
about  were  invited  to  come  to  the  "  raisin'."  The 
afternoon  was  the  time  chosen.  The  forenoon  was 
56 


A  MOWER 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE 

occupied  by  the  carpenter  and  the  farm  hands  in 
putting  the  sills  and  "  sleepers  "  in  place  ("  sleepers," 
what  a  good  name  for  those  rude  hewn  timbers  that 
lie  under  the  floor  in  the  darkness  and  silence!). 
When  the  hands  arrived,  the  great  beams  and  posts 
and  joists  and  braces  were  carried  to  their  place  on 
the  platform,  and  the  first  "  bent,"  as  it  was  called, 
was  put  together  and  pinned  by  oak  pins  that  the 
boys  brought.  Then  pike  poles  were  distributed, 
the  men,  fifteen  or  twenty  of  them,  arranged  in  a 
line  abreast  of  the  bent;  the  boss  carpenter  steadied 
and  guided  the  corner  post  and  gave  the  word  of 
command,  —  "  Take  holt,  boys!"  "  Now,  set  her 
up!"  "Up  with  her!"  "Up  she  goes!"  When 
it  gets  shoulder  high,  it  becomes  heavy,  and  there 
is  a  pause.  The  pikes  are  brought  into  requisition; 
every  man  gets  a  good  hold  and  braces  himself,  and 
waits  for  the  words.  "All  together  now!"  shouts 
the  captain ;  "  Heave  her  up ! "  "  He-o-he ! "  (heave- 
all,  —  heave),  "  he-o-he,"  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
every  man  doing  his  best.  Slowly  the  great  tim- 
bers go  up;  louder  grows  the  word  of  command, 
till  the  bent  is  up.  Then  it  is  plumbed  and  stay- 
lathed,  and  another  is  put  together  and  raised  in  the 
same  way,  till  they  are  all  up.  Then  comes  the  put- 
ting on  the  great  plates,  —  timbers  that  run  length- 
wise of  the  building  and  match  the  sills  below. 
Then,  if  there  is  time,  the  putting  up  of  the  rafters. 
In  every  neighborhood  there  was  always  some 
57 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

man  who  was  especially  useful  at  "raisin's."  He 
was  bold  and  strong  and  quick.  He  helped  guide 
and  superintend  the  work.  He  was  the  first  one 
up  on  the  bent,  catching  a  pin  or  a  brace  and  put- 
ting it  in  place.  He  walked  the  lofty  and  perilous 
plate  with  the  great  beetle  in  hand,  put  the  pins 
in  the  holes,  and,  swinging  the  heavy  instrument 
through  the  air,  drove  the  pins  home.  He  was  as 
much  at  home  up  there  as  a  squirrel. 

Now  that  balloon  frames  are  mainly  used  for 
houses,  and  lighter  sawed  timbers  for  barns,  the 
old-fashioned  raising  is  rarely  witnessed. 

Then  the  moving  was  an  event,  too.  A  farmer 
had  a  barn  to  move,  or  wanted  to  build  a  new 
house  on  the  site  of  the  old  one,  and  the  latter  must 
be  drawn  to  one  side.  Now  this  work  is  done  with 
pulleys  and  rollers  by  a  few  men  and  a  horse;  then 
the  building  was  drawn  by  sheer  bovine  strength. 
Every  man  that  had  a  yoke  of  cattle  in  the  country 
round  about  was  invited  to  assist.  The  barn  or 
house  was  pried  up  and  great  runners,  cut  in  the 
woods,  placed  under  it,  and  under  the  runners  were 
placed  skids.  To  these  runners  it  was  securely 
chained  and  pinned ;  then  the  cattle  —  stags,  steers, 
and  oxen,  in  two  long  lines,  one  at  each  runner  — 
were  hitched  fast,  and,  while  men  and  boys  aided 
with  great  levers,  the  word  to  go  was  given.  Slowly 
the  two  lines  of  bulky  cattle  straightened  and  set- 
tled into  their  bows;  the  big  chains  that  wrapped 
58 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE 

the  runners  tightened,  a  dozen  or  more  "  gads " 
were  flourished,  a  dozen  or  more  lusty  throats  urged 
their  teams  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  when  there 
was  a  creak  or  a  groan  as  the  building  stirred. 
Then  the  drivers  redoubled  their  efforts;  there  was 
a  perfect  Babel  of  discordant  sounds ;  the  oxen  bent 
to  the  work,  their  eyes  bulged,  their  nostrils  dis- 
tended; the  lookers-on  cheered,  and  away  went  the 
old  house  or  barn  as  nimbly  as  a  boy  on  a  hand- 
sled.  Not  always,  however;  sometimes  the  chains 
would  break,  or  one  runner  strike  a  rock,  or  bury 
itself  in  the  earth.  There  were  generally  enough 
mishaps  or  delays  to  make  it  interesting. 

In  the  section  of  the  State  of  which  I  write,  flax 
used  to  be  grown,  and  cloth  for  shirts  and  trousers, 
and  towels  and  sheets,  woven  from  it.  It  was  no 
laughing  matter  for  the  farm-boy  to  break  in  his 
shirt  or  trousers,  those  days.  The  hair  shirts  in 
which  the  old  monks  used  to  mortify  the  flesh  could 
not  have  been  much  before  them  in  this  mortifying 
particular.  But  after  the  bits  of  shives  and  sticks 
were  subdued,  and  the  knots  humbled  by  use  and 
the  washboard,  they  were  good  garments.  If  you 
lost  your  hold  in  a  tree  and  your  shirt  caught  on  a 
knot  or  limb,  it  would  save  you. 

But  when  has  any  one  seen  a  crackle,  or  a  swin- 

gling-knife,  or  a  hetchel,  or  a  distaff,  and  where  can 

one  get  some  tow  for  strings  or  for  gun-wadding,  or 

some  swingling-tow  for  a  bonfire  ?  The  quill-wheel, 

59 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

and  the  spinning-wheel,  and  the  loom  are  heard 
no  more  among  us.  The  last  I  knew  of  a  certain 
hetchel,  it  was  nailed  up  behind  the  old  sheep  that 
did  the  churning  ;  and  when  he  was  disposed  to 
shirk  or  hang  back  and  stop  the  machine,  it  was 
always  ready  to  spur  him  up  in  no  uncertain  man- 
ner. The  old  loom  became  a  hen-roost  in  an  out- 
building; and  the  crackle  upon  which  the  flax  was 
broken,  —  where,  oh,  where  is  it  ? 

When  the  produce  of  the  farm  was  taken  a  long 
distance  to  market,  —  that  was  an  event,  too;  the 
carrying  away  of  the  butter  in  the  fall,  for  instance, 
to  the  river,  a  journey  that  occupied  both  ways 
four  days.  Then  the  family  marketing  was  done 
in  a  few  groceries.  Some  cloth,  new  caps  and  boots 
for  the  boys,  and  a  dress,  or  a  shawl,  or  a  cloak  for 
the  girls  were  brought  back,  besides  news  and  ad- 
venture, and  strange  tidings  of  the  distant  world. 
The  farmer  was  days  in  getting  ready  to  start ;  food 
was  prepared  and  put  in  a  box  to  stand  him  on  the 
journey,  so  as  to  lessen  the  hotel  expenses,  and 
oats  were  put  up  for  the  horses.  The  butter  was 
loaded  up  overnight,  and  in  the  cold  November 
morning,  long  before  it  was  light,  he  was  up  and  off. 
I  seem  to  hear  the  wagon  yet,  its  slow  rattle  over  the 
frozen  ground  diminishing  in  the  distance.  On  the 
fourth  day  toward  night  all  grew  expectant  of  his  re- 
turn, but  it  was  usually  dark  before  his  wagon  was 
heard  coming  down  the  hill,  or  his  voice  from  before 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE 

the  door  summoning  a  light.  When  the  boys  got  big 
enough,  one  after  the  other  accompanied  him  each 
year,  until  all  had  made  the  famous  journey  and 
seen  the  great  river  and  the  steamboats,  and  the 
thousand  and  one  marvels  of  the  far-away  town. 
When  it  came  my  turn  to  go,  I  was  in  a  great  state 
of  excitement  for  a  week  beforehand,  for  fear  my 
clothes  would  not  be  ready,  or  else  that  it  would 
be  too  cold,  or  else  that  the  world  would  come  to 
an  end  before  the  time  fixed  for  starting.  The  day 
previous  I  roamed  the  woods  in  quest  of  game  to 
supply  my  bill  of  fare  on  the  way,  and  was  lucky 
enough  to  shoot  a  partridge  and  an  owl,  though  the 
latter  I  did  not  take.  Perched  high  on  a  "  spring- 
board "  I  made  the  journey,  and  saw  more  sights 
and  wonders  than  I  have  ever  seen  on  a  journey 
since,  or  ever  expect  to  again. 

But  now  all  this  is  changed.  The  railroad  has 
found  its  way  through  or  near  every  settlement,  and 
marvels  and  wonders  are  cheap.  Still,  the  essential 
charm  of  the  farm  remains  and  always  will  remain: 
the  care  of  crops,  and  of  cattle,  and  of  orchards, 
bees,  and  fowls;  the  clearing  and  improving  of  the 
ground  ;  the  building  of  barns  and  houses  ;  the 
direct  contact  with  the  soil  and  with  the  elements; 
the  watching  of  the  clouds  and  of  the  weather;  the 
privacies  with  nature,  with  bird,  beast,  and  plant; 
and  the  close  acquaintance  with  the  heart  and  vir- 
tue of  the  world.  The  farmer  should  be  the  true 
61 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

naturalist ;  the  book  in  which  it  is  all  written  is 
open  before  him  night  and  day,  and  how  sweet  and 
wholesome  all  his  knowledge  is! 

The  predominant  feature  of  farm  life  in  New 
York,  as  in  other  States,  is  always  given  by  some 
local  industry  of  one  kind  or  another.  In  many 
of  the  high,  cold  counties  in  the  eastern  centre  of 
the  State,  this  ruling  industry  is  hop-growing; 
in  the  western,  it  is  grain  and  fruit  growing;  in 
sections  along  the  Hudson,  it  is  small-fruit  growing, 
as  berries,  currants,  grapes;  in  other  counties,  it  is 
milk  and  butter;  in  others,  quarrying  flagging-stone. 
I  recently  visited  a  section  of  Ulster  County,  where 
everybody  seemed  getting  out  hoop-poles  and  mak- 
ing hoops.  The  only  talk  was  of  hoops,  hoops !  Every 
team  that  went  by  had  a  load  or  was  going  for  a 
load  of  hoops.  The  principal  fuel  was  hoop-shavings 
or  discarded  hoop-poles.  No  man  had  any  money 
until  he  sold  his  hoops.  When  a  farmer  went  to 
town  to  get  some  grain,  or  a  pair  of  boots,  or  a 
dress  for  his  wife,  he  took  a  load  of  hoops.  People 
stole  hoops  and  poached  for  hoops,  and  bought,  and 
sold,  and  speculated  in  hoops.  If  there  was  a  corner, 
it  was  in  hoops;  big  hoops,  little  hoops,  hoops  for 
kegs,  and  firkins,  and  barrels,  and  hogsheads,  and 
pipes ;  hickory  hoops,  birch  hoops,  ash  hoops,  chest- 
nut hoops,  hoops  enough  to  go  around  the  world. 
Another  place  it  was  shingle,  shingle;  everybody 
was  shaving  hemlock  shingle. 
62 


PHASES    OF   FARM    LIFE 

In  most  of  the  eastern  counties  of  the  State, 
the  interest  and  profit  of  the  farm  revolve  about 
the  cow.  The  dairy  is  the  one  great  matter,  —  for 
milk,  when  milk  can  be  shipped  to  the  New  York 
market,  and  for  butter  when  it  cannot.  Great  barns 
and  stables  and  milking-sheds,  and  immense  mead- 
ows and  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills,  are  the  promi- 
nent agricultural  features  of  these  sections  of  the 
country.  Good  grass  and  good  water  are  the  two 
indispensables  to  successful  dairying.  And  the  two 
generally  go  together.  Where  there  are  plenty  of 
copious  cold  springs,  there  is  no  dearth  of  grass. 
When  the  cattle  are  compelled  to  browse  upon 
weeds  and  various  wild  growths,  the  milk  and  but- 
ter will  betray  it  in  the  flavor.  Tender,  juicy 
grass,  the  ruddy  blossoming  clover,  or  the  fragrant, 
well-cured  hay,  make  the  delicious  milk  and  the 
sweet  butter.  Then  there  is  a  charm  about  a  natu- 
ral pastoral  country  that  belongs  to  no  other.  Go 
through  Orange  County  hi  May  and  see  the  vivid 
emerald  of  the  smooth  fields  and  hills.  It  is  a  new 
experience  of  the  beauty  and  effectiveness  of  simple 
grass.  And  this  grass  has  rare  virtues,  too,  and 
imparts  a  flavor  to  the  milk  and  butter  that  has 
made  them  famous. 

Along  all  the  sources  of  the  Delaware  the  land 

flows  with  milk,  if  not  with  honey.    The  grass  is 

excellent,   except  in  times  of  protracted  drought, 

and  then  the  browsings  in  the  beech  and  birch 

63 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

woods  are  a  good  substitute.  Butter  is  the  staple 
product.  Every  housewife  is  or  wants  to  be  a 
famous  butter-maker,  and  Delaware  County  butter 
rivals  that  of  Orange  in  market.  Delaware  is  a  high, 
cool  grazing  country.  The  farms  lie  tilted  up  against 
the  sides  of  the  mountain  or  lapping  over  the  hills, 
striped  or  checked  with  stone  walls,  and  presenting 
to  the  eye  long  stretches  of  pasture  and  meadow 
land,  alternating  with  plowed  fields  and  patches 
of  waving  grain.  Few  of  their  features  are  pic- 
turesque ;  they  are  bare,  broad,  and  simple.  The 
farmhouse  gets  itself  a  coat  of  white  paint,  and 
green  blinds  to  the  windows,  and  the  barn  and 
wagon-house  a  coat  of  red  paint  with  white  trim- 
mings, as  soon  as  possible.  A  penstock  flows  by 
the  doorway,  rows  of  tin  pans  sun  themselves  in 
the  yard,  and  the  great  wheel  of  the  churning- 
machine  flanks  the  milk-house,  or  rattles  behind  it 
The  winters  are  severe,  the  snow  deep.  The  prin- 
cipal fuel  is  still  wood,  —  beech,  birch,  and  maple. 
It  is  hauled  off  the  mountain  in  great  logs  when 
the  first  November  or  December  snows  come,  and 
cut  up  and  piled  in  the  wood-houses  and  under  a 
shed.  Here  the  axe  still  rules  the  winter,  and  it 
may  be  heard  all  day  and  every  day  upon  the  wood- 
pile, or  echoing  through  the  frost-bound  wood,  the 
coat  of  the  chopper  hanging  to  a  limb,  and  his 
white  chips  strewing  the  snow. 

Many  cattle  need  much  hay;  hence  in  dairy  sec- 
64 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE 

lions  haying  is  the  period  of  "  storm  and  stress  "  in 
the  farmer's  year.  To  get  the  hay  in,  in  good  con- 
dition, and  before  the  grass  gets  too  ripe,  is  a  great 
matter.  All  the  energies  and  resources  of  the  farm 
are  bent  to  this  purpose.  It  is  a  thirty  or  forty 
days'  war,  in  which  the  fanner  and  his  "  hands  " 
are  pitted  against  the  heat  and  the  rain  and  the 
legions  of  timothy  and  clover.  Everything  about  it 
has  the  urge,  the  hurry,  the  excitement  of  a  battle. 
Outside  help  is  procured;  men  flock  in  from  adjoin- 
ing counties,  where  the  ruling  industry  is  something 
else  and  is  less  imperative;  coopers,  blacksmiths, 
and  laborers  of  various  kinds  drop  their  tools,  and 
take  down  their  scythes  and  go  in  quest  of  a  job 
in  haying.  Every  man  is  expected  to  pitch  his 
endeavors  in  a  little  higher  key  than  at  any  other 
kind  of  work.  The  wages  are  extra,  and  the  work 
must  correspond.  The  men  are  in  the  meadow  by 
half -past  four  or  five  in  the  morning,  and  mow  an 
hour  or  two  before  breakfast.  A  good  mower  is 
proud  of  his  skill.  He  does  not  "  lop  in,"  and  his 
"  pointing  out "  is  perfect,  and  you  can  hardly  see 
the  ribs  of  his  swath.  He  stands  up  to  his  grass 
and  strikes  level  and  sure.  He  will  turn  a  double 
down  through  the  stoutest  grass,  and  when  the  hay 
is  raked  away  you  will  not  find  a  spear  left  stand- 
ing. The  Americans  are  —  or  were — the  best 
mowers.  A  foreigner  could  never  quite  give  the 
masterly  touch.  The  hayfield  has  its  code.  One 
65 


IN  THE  CATSK3LLS 

man  must  not  take  another's  swath  unless  he  ex- 
pects to  be  crowded.  Each  expects  to  take  his  turn 
leading  the  band.  The  scythe  may  be  so  whetted 
as  to  ring  out  a  saucy  challenge  to  the  rest.  It  is 
not  good  manners  to  mow  up  too  close  to  your 
neighbor,  unless  you  are  trying  to  keep  out  of  the 
way  of  the  man  behind  you.  Many  a  race  has  been 
brought  on  by  some  one  being  a  little  indiscreet  in 
this  respect.  Two  men  may  mow  all  day  together 
under  the  impression  that  each  is  trying  to  put 
the  other  through.  The  one  that  leads  strikes  out 
briskly,  and  the  other,  not  to  be  outdone,  follows 
close.  Thus  the  blood  of  each  is  soon  up;  a  little 
heat  begets  more  heat,  and  it  is  fairly  a  race  before 
long.  It  is  a  great  ignominy  to  be  mowed  out  of 
your  swath.  Hay-gathering  is  clean,  manly  work 
all  through.  Young  fellows  work  in  haying  who  do 
not  do  another  stroke  on  the  farm  the  whole  year. 
It  is  a  gymnasium  in  the  meadows  and  under 
the  summer  sky.  How  full  of  pictures,  too !  —  the 
smooth  slopes  dotted  with  cocks  with  lengthening 
shadows;  the  great,  broad-backed,  soft-cheeked 
loads,  moving  along  the  lanes  and  brushing  under 
the  trees;  the  unfinished  stacks  with  forkfuls  of 
hay  being  handed  up  its  sides  to  the  builder,  and 
when  finished  the  shape  of  a  great  pear,  with  a 
pole  in  the  top  for  the  stem.  Maybe  in  the  fall  and 
winter  the  calves  and  yearlings  will  hover  around 
it  and  gnaw  its  base  until  it  overhangs  them  and 
66 


PHASES   OF   FARM    LIFE 

shelters  them  from  the  storm.  Or  the  fanner  will 
"fodder"  his  cows  there,  —  one  of  the  most  pictur- 
esque scenes  to  be  witnessed  on  the  farm,  —  twenty 
or  thirty  or  forty  milchers  filing  along  toward  the 
stack  in  the  field,  or  clustered  about  it,  waiting 
the  promised  bite.  In  great,  green  flakes  the  hay 
is  rolled  off,  and  distributed  about  in  small  heaps 
upon  the  unspotted  snow.  After  the  cattle  have 
eaten,  the  birds  —  snow  buntings  and  red-polls  — 
come  and  pick  up  the  crumbs,  the  seeds  of  the 
grasses  and  weeds.  At  night  the  fox  and  the  owl 
come  for  mice. 

What  a  beautiful  path  the  cows  make  through 
the  snow  to  the  stack  or  to  the  spring  under  the 
hill!  —  always  more  or  less  wayward,  but  broad 
and  firm,  and  carved  and  indented  by  a  multitude 
of  rounded  hoofs. 

In  fact,  the  cow  is  the  true  pathfinder  and  path- 
maker.  She  has  the  leisurely,  deliberate  movement 
that  insures  an  easy  and  a  safe  way.  Follow  her 
trail  through  the  woods,  and  you  have  the  best,  if 
not  the  shortest,  course.  How  she  beats  down  the 
brush  and  briers  and  wears  away  even  the  roots  of 
the  trees!  A  herd  of  cows  left  to  themselves  fall 
naturally  into  single  file,  and  a  hundred  or  more 
hoofs  are  not  long  in  smoothing  and  compacting 
almost  any  surface. 

Indeed,  all  the  ways  and  doings  of  cattle  are 
pleasant  to  look  upon,  whether  grazing  in  the  pas- 
67 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

ture,or  browsing  in  the  woods,  or  ruminating  under 
the  trees,  or  feeding  in  the  stall,  or  reposing  upon 
the  knolls.  There  is  virtue  in  the  cow;  she  is  full 
of  goodness;  a  wholesome  odor  exhales  from  her; 
the  whole  landscape  looks  out  of  her  soft  eyes ;  the 
quality  and  the  aroma  of  miles  of  meadow  and  pas- 
ture lands  are  in  her  presence  and  products.  I  had 
rather  have  the  care  of  cattle  than  be  the  keeper 
of  the  great  seal  of  the  nation.  Where  the  cow  is, 
there  is  Arcadia;  so  far  as  her  influence  prevails, 
there  is  contentment,  humility,  and  sweet,  homely 
life. 

Blessed  is  he  whose  youth  was  passed  upon  the 
farm,  and  if  it  was  a  dairy  farm,  his  memories  will 
be  all  the  more  fragrant.  The  driving  of  the  cows 
to  and  from  the  pasture,  every  day  and  every  season 
for  years,  —  how  much  of  summer  and  of  nature 
he  got  into  him  on  these  journeys !  What  rambles 
and  excursions  did  this  errand  furnish  the  excuse 
for!  The  birds  and  birds'  -nests,  the  berries,  the 
squirrels,  the  woodchucks,  the  beech  woods  with 
their  treasures  into  which  the  cows  loved  so  to 
wander  and  to  browse,  the  fragrant  wintergreens 
and  a  hundred  nameless  adventures,  all  strung  upon 
that  brief  journey  of  half  a  mile  to  and  from  the 
remote  pastures.  Sometimes  a  cow  or  two  will 
be  missing  when  the  herd  is  brought  home  at 
night;  then  to  hunt  them  up  is  another  adventure. 
My  grandfather  went  out  one  night  to  look  up  an 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE 

absentee  from  the  yard,  when  he  heard  something 
in  the  brush,  and  out  stepped  a  bear  into  the  path 
before  him. 

Every  Sunday  morning  the  cows  were  salted. 
The  farm-boy  would  take  a  pail  with  three  or  four 
quarts  of  coarse  salt,  and,  followed  by  the  eager 
herd,  go  to  the  field  and  deposit  the  salt  in  hand- 
fuls  upon  smooth  stones  and  rocks  and  upon  clean 
places  on  the  turf.  If  you  want  to  know  how  good 
salt  is,  see  a  cow  eat  it.  She  gives  the  true  saline 
smack.  How  she  dwells  upon  it,  and  gnaws  the 
sward  and  licks  the  stones  where  it  has  been  depos- 
ited !  The  cow  is  the  most  delightful  feeder  among 
animals.  It  makes  one's  mouth  water  to  see  her 
eat  pumpkins,  and  to  see  her  at  a  pile  of  apples 
is  distracting.  How  she  sweeps  off  the  delectable 
grass!  The  sound  of  her  grazing  is  appetizing;  the 
grass  betrays  all  its  sweetness  and  succulency  in 
parting  under  her  sickle. 

The  region  of  which  I  write  abounds  in  sheep 
also.  Sheep  love  high,  cool,  breezy  lands.  Their 
range  is  generally  much  above  that  of  cattle.  Their 
sharp  noses  will  find  picking  where  a  cow  would 
fare  poorly  indeed.  Hence  most  farmers  utilize 
their  high,  wild,  and  mountain  lands  by  keeping  a 
small  flock  of  sheep.  But  they  are  the  outlaws  of 
the  farm  and  are  seldom  within  bounds.  They 
make  many  lively  expeditions  for  the  farm-boy,  — 
driving  them  out  of  mischief,  hunting  them  up  in 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

the  mountains,  or  salting  them  on  the  breezy  hills. 
Then  there  is  the  annual  sheep-washing,  when  on 
a  warm  day  in  May  or  early  June  the  whole  herd 
is  driven  a  mile  or  more  to  a  suitable  pool  in  the 
creek,  and  one  by  one  doused  and  washed  and  rinsed 
in  the  water.  We  used  to  wash  below  an  old  grist- 
mill, and  it  was  a  pleasing  spectacle, — the  mill, 
the  dam,  the  overhanging  rocks  and  trees,  the  round, 
deep  pool,  and  the  huddled  and  frightened  sheep. 

One  of  the  features  of  farm  life  peculiar  to  this 
country,  and  one  of  the  most  picturesque  of  them 
all,  is  sugar-making  in  the  maple  woods  in  spring. 
This  is  the  first  work  of  the  season,  and  to  the 
boys  is  more  play  than  work.  In  the  Old  World, 
and  in  more  simple  and  imaginative  times,  how 
such  an  occupation  as  this  would  have  got  into 
literature,  and  how  many  legends  and  associations 
would  have  clustered  around  it!  It  is  woodsy,  and 
savors  of  the  trees;  it  is  an  encampment  among 
the  maples.  Before  the  bud  swells,  before  the  grass 
springs,  before  the  plow  is  started,  comes  the  sugar 
harvest.  It  is  the  sequel  of  the  bitter  frost;  a  sap- 
run  is  the  sweet  good-by  of  winter.  It  denotes  a 
certain  equipoise  of  the  season ;  the  heat  of  the  day 
fully  balances  the  frost  of  the  night.  In  New  York 
and  New  England,  the  time  of  the  sap  hovers  about 
the  vernal  equinox,  beginning  a  week  or  ten  days 
before,  and  continuing  a  week  or  ten  days  after. 
As  the  days  and  nights  get  equal,  the  heat  and  cold 
70 


PHASES   OF   FARM    LIFE 

get  equal,  and  the  sap  mounts.  A  day  that  brings 
the  bees  out  of  the  hive  will  bring  the  sap  out  of 
the  maple-tree.  It  is  the  fruit  of  the  equal  marriage 
of  the  sun  and  the  frost.  When  the  frost  is  all  out  of 
the  ground,  and  all  the  snow  gone  from  its  surface, 
the  flow  stops.  The  thermometer  must  not  rise 
above  38°  or  40°  by  day,  or  sink  below  24°  or  25°  at 
night,  with  wind  in  the  north  west;  a  relaxing  south 
wind,  and  the  run  is  over  for  the  present.  Sugar 
weather  is  crisp  weather.  How  the  tin  buckets 
glisten  in  the  gray  woods;  how  the  robins  laugh; 
how  the  nuthatches  call;  how  lightly  the  thin  blue 
smoke  rises  among  the  trees !  The  squirrels  are  out 
of  their  dens;  the  migrating  water-fowls  are  stream- 
ing northward;  the  sheep  and  cattle  look  wistfully 
toward  the  bare  fields;  the  tide  of  the  season,  in 
fact,  is  just  beginning  to  rise. 

Sap-letting  does  not  seem  to  be  an  exhaustive 
process  to  the  trees,  as  the  trees  of  a  sugar-bush 
appear  to  be  as  thrifty  and  as  long-lived  as  other 
trees.  They  come  to  have  a  maternal,  large-waisted 
look,  from  the  wounds  of  the  axe  or  the  auger,  and 
that  is  about  all. 

In  my  sugar-making  days,  the  sap  was  carried  to 
the  boiling-place  in  pails  by  the  aid  of  a  neck-yoke 
and  stored  in  hogsheads,  and  boiled  or  evaporated 
in  immense  kettles  or  caldrons  set  in  huge  stone 
arches  ;  now,  the  hogshead  goes  to  the  trees  hauled 
upon  a  sled  by  a  team,  and  the  sap  is  evaporated  in 
71 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

broad,  shallow,  sheet-iron  pans,  — a  great  saving  of 
fuel  and  of  labor. 

Many  a  farmer  sits  up  all  night  boiling  his  sap, 
when  the  run  has  been  an  extra  good  one,  and  a 
lonely  vigil  he  has  of  it  amid  the  silent  trees  and 
beside  his  wild  hearth.  If  he  has  a  sap-house,  as 
is  now  so  common,  he  may  make  himself  fairly 
comfortable;  and  if  a  companion,  he  may  have  a 
good  time  or  a  glorious  wake. 

Maple  sugar  in  its  perfection  is  rarely  seen,  per- 
haps never  seen,  in  the  market.  When  made  in 
large  quantities  and  indifferently,  it  is  dark  and 
coarse;  but  when  made  in  small  quantities  —  that 
is,  quickly  from  the  first  run  of  sap  and  properly 
treated  —  it  has  a  wild  delicacy  of  flavor  that  no 
other  sweet  can  match.  What  you  smell  in  freshly 
cut  maple- wood,  or  taste  in  the  blossom  of  the  tree, 
is  in  it.  It  is  then,  indeed,  the  distilled  essence  of 
the  tree.  Made  into  syrup,  it  is  white  and  clear 
as  clover-honey;  and  crystallized  into  sugar,  it  is  as 
pure  as  the  wax.  The  way  to  attain  this  result  is 
to  evaporate  the  sap  under  cover  in  an  enameled 
kettle;  when  reduced  about  twelve  times,  allow  it 
to  settle  half  a  day  or  more;  then  clarify  with  milk 
or  the  white  of  an  egg.  The  product  is  virgin 
syrup,  or  sugar  worthy  the  table  of  the  gods. 

Perhaps  the  most  heavy  and  laborious  work  of 
the  farm  in  the  section  of  the  State  of  which  I 
write  is  fence-building.  But  it  is  not  unproductive 
72 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE 

labor,  as  in  the  South  or  West,  for  the  fence  is  of 
stone,  and  the  capacity  of  the  soil  for  grass  or  grain 
is,  of  course,  increased  by  its  construction.  It  is 
killing  two  birds  with  one  stone:  a  fence  is  had, 
the  best  in  the  world,  while  the  available  area  of 
the  field  is  enlarged.  In  fact,  if  there  are  ever 
sermons  in  stones,  it  is  when  they  are  built  into  a 
stone  wall,  —  turning  your  hindrances  into  helps, 
shielding  your  crops  behind  the  obstacles  to  your 
husbandry,  making  the  enemies  of  the  plow  stand 
guard  over  its  products.  This  is  the  kind  of  farm- 
ing worth  imitating.  A  stone  wall  with  a  good 
rock  bottom  will  stand  as  long  as  a  man  lasts.  Its 
only  enemy  is  the  frost,  and  it  works  so  gently 
that  it  is  not  till  after  many  years  that  its  effect  is 
perceptible.  An  old  farmer  will  walk  with  you 
through  his  fields  and  say,  "  This  wall  I  built  at 
such  and  such  a  time,  or  the  first  year  I  came  on 
the  farm,  or  when  I  owned  such  and  such  a  span  of 
horses,"  indicating  a  period  thirty,  forty,  or  fifty 
years  back.  "  This  other,  we  built  the  summer  so 
and  so  worked  for  me,"  and  he  relates  some  inci- 
dent, or  mishap,  or  comical  adventures  that  the 
memory  calls  up.  Every  line  of  fence  has  a  his- 
tory; the  mark  of  his  plow  or  his  crowbar  is  upon 
the  stones ;  the  sweat  of  his  early  manhood  put  them 
in  place;  in  fact,  the  long  black  line  covered  with 
lichens  and  in  places  tottering  to  the  fall  revives 
long-gone  scenes  and  events  in  the  life  of  the  farm. 
73 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

The  time  for  fence-building  is  usually  between 
seed-time  and  harvest,  May  and  June;  or  in  the 
fall  after  the  crops  are  gathered.  The  work  has  its 
picturesque  features,  —  the  prying  of  rocks;  supple 
forms  climbing  or  swinging  from  the  end  of  the 
great  levers ;  or  the  blasting  of  the  rocks  with  pow- 
der, the  hauling  of  them  into  position  with  oxen 
or  horses,  or  with  both;  the  picking  of  the  stone 
from  the  greensward;  the  bending,  athletic  forms  of 
the  wall-layers;  the  snug  new  fence  creeping  slowly 
up  the  hill  or  across  the  field,  absorbing  the  wind- 
row of  loose  stones;  and,  when  the  work  is  done, 
much  ground  reclaimed  to  the  plow  and  the  grass, 
and  a  strong  barrier  erected. 

It  is  a  common  complaint  that  the  farm  and 
farm  life  are  not  appreciated  by  our  people.  We 
long  for  the  more  elegant  pursuits,  or  the  ways  and 
fashions  of  the  town.  But  the  farmer  has  the  most 
sane  and  natural  occupation,  and  ought  to  find  life 
sweeter,  if  less  highly  seasoned,  than  any  other. 
He  alone,  strictly  speaking,  has  a  home.  How  can 
a  man  take  root  and  thrive  without  land  ?  He 
writes  his  history  upon  his  field.  How  many  ties, 
how  many  resources,  he  has,  —  his  friendships  with 
his  cattle,  his  team,  his  dog,  his  trees,  the  satisfac- 
tion in  his  growing  crops,  in  his  improved  fields; 
his  intimacy  with  nature,  with  bird  and  beast,  and 
with  the  quickening  elemental  forces;  his  coopera- 
tions with  the  clouds,  the  sun,  the  seasons,  heat, 
74 


WAITING  FOR  THE   COWS 


PHASES   OF   FARM   LIFE 

wind,  rain,  frost  !  Nothing  will  take  the  various 
social  distempers  which  the  city  and  artificial  life 
breed  out  of  a  man  like  farming,  like  direct  and  lov- 
ing contact  with  the  soil.  It  draws  out  the  poison. 
It  humbles  him,  teaches  him  patience  and  reverence, 
and  restores  the  proper  tone  to  his  system. 

Cling  to  the  farm,  make  much  of  it,  put  yourself 
into  it,  bestow  your  heart  and  your  brain  upon  it, 
so  that  it  shall  savor  of  you  and  radiate  your  virtue 
after  your  day's  work  is  done! 

"  Be  thou  diligent  to  know  the  state  of  thy  flocks, 
and  look  well  to  thy  herds. 

"  For  riches  are  not  forever;  and  doth  the  crown 
endure  to  every  generation  ? 

"  The  hay  appeareth,  and  the  tender  grass  show- 
eth  itself,  and  herbs  of  the  mountains  are  gathered. 

"  The  Iambs  are  for  thy  clothing,  and  the  goats 
are  the  price  of  the  field. 

"And  thou  shalt  have  goat's  milk  enough  for 
thy  food,  for  the  food  of  thy  household,  and  for  the 
maintenance  for  thy  maidens.'* 


IV 

IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 


IV 

IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

MOST  people  receive  with  incredulity  a  state- 
ment of  the  number  of  birds  that  annually 
visit  our  climate.  Very  few  even  are  aware  of  half 
the  number  that  spend  the  summer  in  their  own 
immediate  vicinity.  We  little  suspect,  when  we 
walk  in  the  woods,  whose  privacy  we  are  intruding 
upon,  —  what  rare  and  elegant  visitants  from  Mex- 
ico, from  Central  and  South  America,  and  from  the 
islands  of  the  sea,  are  holding  their  reunions  in  the 
branches  over  our  heads,  or  pursuing  their  pleasure 
on  the  ground  before  us. 

I  recall  the  altogether  admirable  and  shining 
family  which  Thoreau  dreamed  he  saw  in  the  upper 
chambers  of  Spaulding's  woods,  which  Spaulding 
did  not  know  lived  there,  and  which  were  not  put 
out  when  Spaulding,  whistling,  drove  his  team 
through  their  lower  halls.  They  did  not  go  into 
society  in  the  village  ;  they  were  quite  well ;  they 
had  sons  and  daughters  ;  they  neither  wove  nor 
spun;  there  was  a  sound  as  of  suppressed  hilarity. 

I  take  it  for  granted  that  the  forester  was  only 
saying  a  pretty  thing  of  the  birds,  though  I  have 
79 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

observed  that  it  does  sometimes  annoy  them  when 
Spaulding's  cart  rumbles  through  their  house.  Gen- 
erally, however,  they  are  as  unconscious  of  Spaul- 
ding  as  Spaulding  is  of  them. 

Walking  the  other  day  in  an  old  hemlock  wood, 
I  counted  over  forty  varieties  of  these  summer  vis- 
itants, many  of  them  common  to  other  woods  in 
the  vicinity,  but  quite  a  number  peculiar  to  these 
ancient  solitudes,  and  not  a  few  that  are  rare  in 
any  locality.  It  is  quite  unusual  to  find  so  large 
a  number  abiding  in  one  forest,  —  and  that  not  a 
large  one,  —  most  of  them  nesting  and  spending  the 
summer  there.  Many  of  those  I  observed  commonly 
pass  this  season  much  farther  north.  But  the  geo- 
graphical distribution  of  birds  is  rather  a  climatical 
one.  The  same  temperature,  though  under  differ- 
ent parallels,  usually  attracts  the  same  birds;  differ- 
ence in  altitude  being  equivalent  to  the  difference 
in  latitude.  A  given  height  above  the  sea-level 
under  the  parallel  of  thirty  degrees  may  have  the 
same  climate  as  places  under  that  of  thirty-five 
degrees,  and  similar  flora  and  fauna.  At  the  head- 
waters of  the  Delaware,  where  I  write,  the  latitude 
is  that  of  Boston,  but  the  region  has  a  much  greater 
elevation,  and  hence  a  climate  that  compares  bet- 
ter with  the  northern  part  of  the  State  and  of 
New  England.  Half  a  day's  drive  to  the  southeast 
brings  me  down  into  quite  a  different  temperature, 
with  an  older  geological  formation,  different  forest 
80 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

timber,  and  different  birds,  —  even  with  different 
mammals.  Neither  the  little  gray  rabbit  nor  the 
little  gray  fox  is  found  in  my  locality,  but  the  great 
northern  hare  and  the  red  fox  are.  In  the  last  cen- 
tury a  colony  of  beavers  dwelt  here,  though  the 
oldest  inhabitant  cannot  now  point  to  even  the 
traditional  site  of  their  dams.  The  ancient  hemlocks, 
whither  I  propose  to  take  the  reader,  are  rich  in 
many  things  besides  birds.  Indeed,  their  wealth 
in  this  respect  is  owing  mainly,  no  doubt,  to  their 
rank  vegetable  growths,  their  fruitful  swamps,  and 
their  dark,  sheltered  retreats. 

Their  history  is  of  an  heroic  cast.  Ravished  and 
torn  by  the  tanner  in  his  thirst  for  bark,  preyed 
upon  by  the  lumberman,  assaulted  and  beaten 
back  by  the  settler,  still  their  spirit  has  never  been 
broken,  their  energies  never  paralyzed.  Not  many 
years  ago  a  public  highway  passed  through  them, 
but  it  was  at  no  time  a  tolerable  road;  trees  fell 
across  it,  mud  and  limbs  choked  it  up,  till  finally 
travelers  took  the  hint  and  went  around;  and  now, 
walking  along  its  deserted  course,  I  see  only  the 
footprints  of  coons,  foxes,  and  squirrels. 

Nature  loves  such  woods,  and  places  her  own  seal 
upon  them.  Here  she  shows  me  what  can  be  done 
with  ferns  and  mosses  and  lichens.  The  soil  is 
marrowy  and  full  of  innumerable  forests.  Stand- 
ing in  these  fragrant  aisles,  I  feel  the  strength  of 
the  vegetable  kingdom,  and  am  awed  by  the  deep 
81 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

and  inscrutable  processes  of  life  going  on  so  silently 
about  me. 

No  hostile  forms  with  axe  or  spud  now  visit  these 
solitudes.  The  cows  have  half -hidden  ways  through 
them,  and  know  where  the  best  browsing  is  to  be 
had.  In  spring,  the  farmer  repairs  to  their  border- 
ing of  maples  to  make  sugar;  in  July  and  August, 
women  and  boys  from  all  the  country  about  pen- 
etrate the  old  Barkpeelings  for  raspberries  and 
blackberries ;  and  I  know  a  youth  who  wonderingly 
follows  their  languid  stream  casting  for  trout. 

In  like  spirit,  alert  and  buoyant,  on  this  bright 
June  morning  go  I  also  to  reap  my  harvest,  —  pur- 
suing a  sweet  more  delectable  than  sugar,  fruit 
more  savory  than  berries,  and  game  for  another 
palate  than  that  tickled  by  trout. 

June,  of  all  the  months,  the  student  of  ornitho- 
logy can  least  afford  to  lose.  Most  birds  are  nesting 
then,  and  in  full  song  and  plumage.  And  what  is 
a  bird  without  its  song?  Do  we  not  wait  for  the 
stranger  to  speak?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  do  not 
know  a  bird  till  I  have  heard  its  voice  ;  then  I 
come  nearer  it  at  once,  and  it  possesses  a  human 
interest  to  me.  I  have  met  the  gray-cheeked  thrush 
in  the  woods,  and  held  him  in  my  hand;  still  I  do 
not  know  him.  The  silence  of  the  cedar-bird  throws 
a  mystery  about  him  which  neither  his  good  looks 
nor  his  petty  larcenies  in  cherry  time  can  dispel. 
A  bird's  song  contains  a  clew  to  its  life,  and  estab- 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

lishes  a  sympathy,  an  understanding,  between  itself 
and  the  listener. 

I  descend  a  steep  hill,  and  approach  the  hemlocks 
through  a  large  sugar-bush.  When  twenty  rods 
distant,  I  hear  all  along  the  line  of  the  forest  the 
incessant  warble  of  the  red-eyed  vireo,  cheerful 
and  happy  as  the  merry  whistle  of  a  schoolboy. 
He  is  one  of  our  most  common  and  widely  dis- 
tributed birds.  Approach  any  forest  at  any  hour 
of  the  day,  in  any  kind  of  weather,  from  May  to 
August,  in  any  of  the  Middle  or  Eastern  districts, 
and  the  chances  are  that  the  first  note  you  hear  will 
be  his.  Rain  or  shine,  before  noon  or  after,  in  the 
deep  forest  or  in  the  village  grove,  —  when  it  is  too 
hot  for  the  thrushes  or  too  cold  and  windy  for  the 
warblers,  —  it  is  never  out  of  time  or  place  for  this 
little  minstrel  to  indulge  his  cheerful  strain.  In 
the  deep  wilds  of  the  Adirondacks,  where  few  birds 
are  seen  and  fewer  heard,  his  note  was  almost  con- 
stantly in  my  ear.  Always  busy,  making  it  a  point 
never  to  suspend  for  one  moment  his  occupation  to 
indulge  his  musical  taste,  his  lay  is  that  of  industry 
and  contentment.  There  is  nothing  plaintive  or 
especially  musical  in  his  performance,  but  the  sen- 
timent expressed  is  eminently  that  of  cheerfulness. 
Indeed,  the  songs  of  most  birds  have  some  human 
significance,  which,  I  think,  is  the  source  of  the 
delight  we  take  in  them.  The  song  of  the  bobolink 
to  me  expresses  hilarity;  the  song  sparrow's,  faith; 
83 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

the  bluebird's,  love;  the  catbird's,  pride;  the  white- 
eyed  flycatcher's,  self -consciousness ;  that  of  the 
hermit  thrush,  spiritual  serenity  :  while  there  is 
something  military  in  the  call  of  the  robin. 

The  red-eye  is  classed  among  the  flycatchers  by 
some  writers,  but  is  much  more  of  a  worm-eater, 
and  has  few  of  the  traits  or  habits  of  the  Muscicapa 
or  the  true  Sylvia.  He  resembles  somewhat  the 
warbling  vireo,  and  the  two  birds  are  often  con- 
founded by  careless  observers.  Both  warble  in  the 
same  cheerful  strain,  but  the  latter  more  continu- 
ously and  rapidly.  The  red-eye  is  a  larger,  slimmer 
bird,  with  a  faint  bluish  crown,  and  a  light  line 
over  the  eye.  His  movements  are  peculiar.  You 
may  see  him  hopping  among  the  limbs,  exploring 
the  under  side  of  the  leaves,  peering  to  the  right 
and  left,  now  flitting  a  few  feet,  now  hopping  as 
many,  and  warbling  incessantly,  occasionally  in  a 
subdued  tone,  which  sounds  from  a  very  indefinite 
distance.  When  he  has  found  a  worm  to  his  liking, 
he  turns  lengthwise  of  the  limb  and  bruises  its  head 
with  his  beak  before  devouring  it. 

As  I  enter  the  woods  the  slate-colored  snowbird 
starts  up  before  me  and  chirps  sharply.  His  protest 
when  thus  disturbed  is  almost  metallic  in  its  sharp- 
ness. He  breeds  here,  and  is  not  esteemed  a  snow- 
bird at  all,  as  he  disappears  at  the  near  approach 
of  winter,  and  returns  again  in  spring,  like  the 
song  sparrow,  and  is  not  hi  any  way  associated 
84 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

with  the  cold  and  the  snow.  So  different  are  the 
habits  of  birds  in  different  localities.  Even  the  crow 
does  not  winter  here,  and  is  seldom  seen  after  De- 
cember or  before  March. 

The  snowbird,  or  "black  chipping-bird,"  as  it 
is  known  among  the  farmers,  is  the  finest  architect 
of  any  of  the  ground-builders  known  to  me.  The 
site  of  its  nest  is  usually  some  low  bank  by  the 
roadside,  near  a  wood.  In  a  slight  excavation, 
with  a  partially  concealed  entrance,  the  exquisite 
structure  is  placed.  Horse  and  cow  hair  are  plen- 
tifully used,  imparting  to  the  interior  of  the  nest 
great  symmetry  and  firmness  as  well  as  softness. 

Passing  down  through  the  maple  arches,  barely 
pausing  to  observe  the  antics  of  a  trio  of  squirrels, 
—  two  gray  ones  and  a  black  one,  —  I  cross  an  an- 
cient brush  fence  and  am  fairly  within  the  old  hem- 
locks, and  in  one  of  the  most  primitive,  undisturbed 
nooks.  In  the  deep  moss  I  tread  as  with  muffled 
feet,  and  the  pupils  of  my  eyes  dilate  in  the  dim, 
almost  religious  light.  The  irreverent  red  squirrels, 
however,  run  and  snicker  at  my  approach,  or  mock 
the  solitude  with  their  ridiculous  chattering  and 
frisking. 

This  nook  is  the  chosen  haunt  of  the  winter 
wren.  This  is  the  only  place  and  these  the  only 
woods  in  which  I  find  him  in  this  vicinity.  His 
voice  fills  these  dim  aisles,  as  if  aided  by  some 
marvelous  sounding-board.  Indeed,  his  song  is  very 
85 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

strong  for  so  small  a  bird,  and  unites  in  a  remark- 
able degree  brilliancy  and  plaintiveness.  I  think 
of  a  tremulous  vibrating  tongue  of  silver.  You 
may  know  it  is  the  song  of  a  wren,  from  its  gush- 
ing lyrical  character;  but  you  must  needs  look 
sharp  to  see  the  little  minstrel,  especially  while  in 
the  act  of  singing.  He  is  nearly  the  color  of  the 
ground  and  the  leaves ;  he  never  ascends  the  tall 
trees,  but  keeps  low,  flitting  from  stump  to  stump 
and  from  root  to  root,  dodging  in  and  out  of  his 
hiding-places,  and  watching  all  intruders  with  a 
suspicious  eye.  He  has  a  very  pert,  almost  comical 
look.  His  tail  stands  more  than  perpendicular:  it 
points  straight  toward  his  head.  He  is  the  least 
ostentatious  singer  I  know  of.  He  does  not  strike 
an  attitude,  and  lift  up  his  head  in  preparation,  and, 
as  it  were,  clear  his  throat;  but  sits  there  on  a  log 
and  pours  out  his  music,  looking  straight  before 
him,  or  even  down  at  the  ground.  As  a  songster, 
he  has  but  few  superiors.  I  do  not  hear  him  after 
the  first  week  in  July. 

While  sitting  on  this  soft-cushioned  log,  tasting 
the  pungent  acidulous  wood-sorrel,  the  blossoms 
of  which,  large  and  pink- veined,  rise  everywhere 
above  the  moss,  a  rufous-colored  bird  flies  quickly 
past,  and,  alighting  on  a  low  limb  a  few  rods  off, 
salutes  me  with  "Whew!  Whew!"  or  "Whoit! 
Whoit!"  almost  as  you  would  whistle  for  your  dog. 
I  see  by  his  impulsive,  graceful  movements,  and  his 
86 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

dimly  speckled  breast,  that  it  is  a  thrush.  Presently 
he  utters  a  few  soft,  mellow,  flute-like  notes,  one  of 
the  most  simple  expressions  of  melody  to  be  heard, 
and  scuds  away,  and  I  see  it  is  the  veery,  or  Wil- 
son's thrush.  He  is  the  least  of  the  thrushes  in 
size,  being  about  that  of  the  common  bluebird,  and 
he  may  be  distinguished  from  his  relatives  by  the 
dimness  of  the  spots  upon  his  breast.  The  wood 
thrush  has  very  clear,  distinct  oval  spots  on  a  white 
ground  ;  in  the  hermit,  the  spots  run  more  into 
lines,  on  a  ground  of  a  faint  bluish  white;  in  the 
veery,  the  marks  are  almost  obsolete,  and  a  few 
rods  off  his  breast  presents  only  a  dull  yellowish 
appearance.  To  get  a  good  view  of  him  you  have 
only  to  sit  down  in  his  haunts,  as  in  such  cases  he 
seems  equally  anxious  to  get  a  good  view  of  you. 

From  those  tall  hemlocks  proceeds  a  very  fine 
insect-like  warble,  and  occasionally  I  see  a  spray 
tremble,  or  catch  the  flit  of  a  wing.  I  watch  and 
watch  till  my  head  grows  dizzy  and  my  neck  is  in 
danger  of  permanent  displacement,  and  still  do  not 
get  a  good  view.  Presently  the  bird  darts,  or,  as 
it  seems,  falls  down  a  few  feet  in  pursuit  of  a  fly 
or  a  moth,  and  I  see  the  whole  of  it,  but  in  the 
dim  light  am  undecided.  It  is  for  such  emergen- 
cies that  I  have  brought  my  gun.  A  bird  in  the 
hand  is  worth  half  a  dozen  in  the  bush,  even  for 
ornithological  purposes ;  and  no  sure  and  rapid  pro- 
gress can  be  made  in  the  study  without  taking  life, 
87 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

without  procuring  specimens.  This  bird  is  a  war- 
bler, plainly  enough,  from  his  habits  and  manner; 
but  what  kind  of  warbler  ?  Look  on  him  and  name 
him:  a  deep  orange  or  flame-colored  throat  and 
breast;  the  same  color  showing  also  in  a  line  over 
the  eye  and  in  his  crown  ;  back  variegated  black 
and  white.  The  female  is  less  marked  and  bril- 
liant. The  orange-throated  warbler  would  seem 
to  be  his  right  name,  his  characteristic  cognomen; 
but  no,  he  is  doomed  to  wear  the  name  of  some 
discoverer,  perhaps  the  first  who  rifled  his  nest 
or  robbed  him  of  his  mate,  —  Blackburn;  hence 
Blackburnian  warbler.  The  burn  seems  appro- 
priate enough,  for  hi  these  dark  evergreens  his 
throat  and  breast  show  like  flame.  He  has  a  very 
fine  warble,  suggesting  that  of  the  redstart,  but 
not  especially  musical.  I  find  him  in  no  other 
woods  in  this  vicinity. 

I  am  attracted  by  another  warble  in  the  same 
locality,  and  experience  a  like  difficulty  in  getting 
a  good  view  of  the  author  of  it.  It  is  quite  a  no- 
ticeable strain,  sharp  and  sibilant,  and  sounds 
well  amid  the  old  trees.  In  the  upland  woods  of 
beech  and  maple  it  is  a  more  familiar  sound  than 
in  these  solitudes.  On  taking  the  bird  in  hand, 
one  cannot  help  exclaiming,  "How  beautiful!"  So 
tiny  and  elegant,  the  smallest  of  the  warblers ;  a 
delicate  blue  back,  with  a  slight  bronze-colored 
triangular  spot  between  the  shoulders ;  upper 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

mandible  black  ;  lower  mandible  yellow  as  gold ; 
throat  yellow,  becoming  a  dark  bronze  on  the 
breast.  Blue  yellow-back  he  is  called,  though  the 
yellow  is  much  nearer  a  bronze.  He  is  remarkably 
delicate  and  beautiful,  —  the  handsomest  as  he  is 
the  smallest  of  the  warblers  known  to  me.  It  is 
never  without  surprise  that  I  find  amid  these  rug- 
ged, savage  aspects  of  nature  creatures  so  fairy  and 
delicate.  But  such  is  the  law.  Go  to  the  sea  or 
climb  the  mountain,  and  with  the  ruggedest  and  the 
savagest  you  will  find  likewise  the  fairest  and  the 
most  delicate.  The  greatness  and  the  minuteness 
of  nature  pass  all  understanding. 

Ever  since  I  entered  the  woods,  even  while  lis- 
tening to  the  lesser  songsters,  or  contemplating  the 
silent  forms  about  me,  a  strain  has  reached  my  ears 
from  out  the  depths  of  the  forest  that  to  me  is  the 
finest  sound  in  nature,  —  the  song  of  the  hermit 
thrush.  I  often  hear  him  thus  a  long  way  off, 
sometimes  over  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  when 
only  the  stronger  and  more  perfect  parts  of  his 
music  reach  me;  and  through  the  general  chorus 
of  wrens  and  warblers  I  detect  this  sound  rising 
pure  and  serene,  as  if  a  spirit  from  some  remote 
height  were  slowly  chanting  a  divine  accompani- 
ment. This  song  appeals  to  the  sentiment  of  the 
beautiful  in  me,  and  suggests  a  serene  religious 
beatitude  as  no  other  sound  in  nature  does.  It  is 
perhaps  more  of  an  evening  than  a  morning  hymn, 
89 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

though  I  hear  it  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  It  is  very 
simple,  and  I  can  hardly  tell  the  secret  of  its  charm. 
"O  spheral,  spheral!"  he  seems  to  say;  "O  holy, 
holy !  O  clear  away,  clear  away !  O  clear  up,  clear 
up!"  interspersed  with  the  finest  trills  and  the 
most  delicate  preludes.  It  is  not  a  proud,  gorgeous 
strain,  like  the  tanager's  or  the  grosbeak's;  suggests 
no  passion  or  emotion,  —  nothing  personal,  —  but 
seems  to  be  the  voice  of  that  calm,  sweet  solemnity 
one  attains  to  in  his  best  moments.  It  realizes  a 
peace  and  a  deep,  solemn  joy  that  only  the  finest 
souls  may  know.  A  few  nights  ago  I  ascended  a 
mountain  to  see  the  world  by  moonlight,  and  when 
near  the  summit  the  hermit  commenced  his  evening 
hymn  a  few  rods  from  me.  Listening  to  this  strain 
on  the  lone  mountain,  with  the  full  moon  just 
rounded  from  the  horizon,  the  pomp  of  your  cities 
and  the  pride  of  your  civilization  seemed  trivial 
and  cheap. 

I  have  seldom  known  two  of  these  birds  to  be 
singing  at  the  same  time  in  the  same  locality,  rival- 
ing each  other,  like  the  wood  thrush  or  the  veery. 
Shooting  one  from  a  tree,  I  have  observed  another 
take  up  the  strain  from  almost  the  identical  perch 
in  less  than  ten  minutes  afterward.  Later  in  the 
day,  when  I  had  penetrated  the  heart  of  the  old 
Barkpeeling,  I  came  suddenly  upon  one  singing 
from  a  low  stump,  and  for  a  wonder  he  did  not  seem 
alarmed,  but  lifted  up  his  divine  voice  as  if  his 
90 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

privacy  was  undisturbed.  I  open  his  beak  and  find 
the  inside  yellow  as  gold.  I  was  prepared  to  find  it 
inlaid  with  pearls  and  diamonds,  or  to  see  an  angel 
issue  from  it. 

He  is  not  much  in  the  books.  Indeed,  I  am  ac- 
quainted with  scarcely  any  writer  on  ornithology 
whose  head  is  not  muddled  on  the  subject  of  our 
three  prevailing  song-thrushes,  confounding  either 
their  figures  or  their  songs.  A  writer  in  the  "At- 
lantic "  *  gravely  tells  us  the  wood  thrush  is  some- 
times called  the  hermit,  and  then,  after  describing 
the  song  of  the  hermit  with  great  beauty  and  cor- 
rectness, coolly  ascribes  it  to  the  veery!  The  new 
Cyclopaedia,  fresh  from  the  study  of  Audubon,  says 
the  hermit's  song  consists  of  a  single  plaintive  note, 
and  that  the  veery's  resembles  that  of  the  wood 
thrush !  The  hermit  thrush  may  be  easily  identified 
by  his  color;  his  back  being  a  clear  olive-brown 
becoming  rufous  on  his  rump  and  tail.  A  quill 
from  his  wing  placed  beside  one  from  his  tail  on  a 
dark  ground  presents  quite  a  marked  contrast. 

I  walk  along  the  old  road,  and  note  the  tracks  in 

the  thin  layer  of  mud.     When  do  these  creatures 

travel  here?     I  have  never  yet  chanced  to  meet 

one.  Here  a  partridge  has  set  its  foot ;  there,  a 

woodcock;  here,  a  squirrel  or  mink;  there,  a  skunk; 

there,  a  fox.    What  a  clear,  nervous  track  reynard 

makes!  how  easy  to  distinguish  it  from  that  of  a 

l  For  December,  1858. 

91 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

little  dog,  —  it  is  so  sharply  cut  and  defined !  A 
dog's  track  is  coarse  and  clumsy  beside  it.  There 
is  as  much  wildness  in  the  track  of  an  animal  as 
in  its  voice.  Is  a  deer's  track  like  a  sheep's  or  a 
goat's?  What  winged-footed  fleetness  and  agility 
may  be  inferred  from  the  sharp,  braided  track  of 
the  gray  squirrel  upon  the  new  snow!  Ah!  in  na- 
ture is  the  best  discipline.  How  wood-life  sharp- 
ens the  senses,  giving  a  new  power  to  the  eye,  the 
ear,  the  nose !  And  are  not  the  rarest  and  most  ex- 
quisite songsters  wood-birds  ? 

Everywhere  in  these  solitudes  I  am  greeted  with 
the  pensive,  almost  pathetic  note  of  the  wood 
pewee.  The  pewees  are  the  true  flycatchers,  and 
are  easily  identified.  They  are  very  characteristic 
birds,  have  strong  family  traits  and  pugnacious 
dispositions.  They  are  the  least  attractive  or  ele- 
gant birds  of  our  fields  or  forests.  Sharp-shouldered, 
big-headed,  short-legged,  of  no  particular  color,  of 
little  elegance  in  flight  or  movement,  with  a  dis- 
agreeable flirt  of  the  tail,  always  quarreling  with 
their  neighbors  and  with  one  another,  no  birds  are 
so  little  calculated  to  excite  pleasurable  emotions  in 
the  beholder,  or  to  become  objects  of  human  inter- 
est, and  affection.  The  kingbird  is  the  best  dressed 
member  of  the  family,  but  he  is  a  braggart;  and, 
though  always  snubbing  his  neighbors,  is  an  arrant 
coward,  and  shows  the  white  feather  at  the  slight- 
est display  of  pluck  in  his  antagonist.  I  have  seen 
92 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

him  turn  tail  to  a  swallow,  and  have  known  the 
little  pewee  in  question  to  whip  him  beautifully. 
From  the  great-crested  to  the  little  green  flycatcher, 
their  ways  and  general  habits  are  the  same.  Slow 
in  flying  from  point  to  point,  they  yet  have  a  won- 
derful quickness,  and  snap  up  the  fleetest  insects 
with  little  apparent  effort.  There  is  a  constant  play 
of  quick,  nervous  movements  underneath  their 
outer  show  of  calmness  and  stolidity.  They  do 
not  scour  the  limbs  and  trees  like  the  warblers, 
but,  perched  upon  the  middle  branches,  wait,  like 
true  hunters,  for  the  game  to  come  along.  There 
is  often  a  very  audible  snap  of  the  beak  as  they 
seize  their  prey. 

The  wood  pewee,  the  prevailing  species  in  this 
locality,  arrests  your  attention  by  his  sweet,  pathetic 
cry.  There  is  room  for  it  also  in  the  deep  woods, 
as  well  as  for  the  more  prolonged  and  elevated 
strains. 

Its  relative,  the  phcebe-bird,  builds  an  exquisite 
nest  of  moss  on  the  side  of  some  shelving  cliff  or 
overhanging  rock.  The  other  day,  passing  by  a 
ledge  near  the  top  of  a  mountain  in  a  singularly 
desolate  locality,  my  eye  rested  upon  one  of  these 
structures,  looking  precisely  as  if  it  grew  there,  so 
in  keeping  was  it  with  the  mossy  character  of  the 
rock,  and  I  have  had  a  growing  affection  for  the 
bird  ever  since.  The  rock  seemed  to  love  the  nest 
and  to  claim  it  as  its  own.  I  said,  what  a  lesson 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

in  architecture  is  here!  Here  is  a  house  that  was 
built,  but  with  such  loving  care  and  such  beautiful 
adaptation  of  the  means  to  the  end,  that  it  looks 
like  a  product  of  nature.  The  same  wise  economy  is 
noticeable  in  the  nests  of  all  birds.  No  bird  could 
paint  its  house  white  or  red,  or  add  aught  for  show. 
At  one  point  in  the  grayest,  most  shaggy  part  of 
the  woods,  I  come  suddenly  upon  a  brood  of  screech 
owls,  full  grown,  sitting  together  upon  a  dry,  moss- 
draped  limb,  but  a  few  feet  from  the  ground.  I 
pause  within  four  or  five  yards  of  them  and  am 
looking  about  me,  when  my  eye  lights  upon  these 
gray,  motionless  figures.  They  sit  perfectly  upright, 
some  with  their  backs  and  some  with  their  breasts 
toward  me,  but  every  head  turned  squarely  in  my 
direction.  Their  eyes  are  closed  to  a  mere  black 
line;  through  this  crack  they  are  watching  me,  evi- 
dently thinking  themselves  unobserved.  The  spec- 
tacle is  weird  and  grotesque,  and  suggests  some- 
thing impish  and  uncanny.  It  is  a  new  effect,  the 
night  side  of  the  woods  by  daylight.  After  observ- 
ing them  a  moment  I  take  a  single  step  toward  them, 
when,  quick  as  thought,  their  eyes  fly  wide  open, 
their  attitude  is  changed,  they  bend,  some  this  way, 
some  that,  and,  instinct  with  life  and  motion,  stare 
wildly  around  them.  Another  step,  and  they  all 
take  flight  but  one,  which  stoops  low  on  the  branch, 
and  with  the  look  of  a  frightened  cat  regards  me 
for  a  few  seconds  over  its  shoulder.  They  fly  swiftly 
94 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

and  softly,  and  disperse  through  the  trees.  I  shoot 
one,  which  is  of  a  tawny  red  tint,  like  that  figured 
by  Wilson.  It  is  a  singular  fact  that  the  plumage 
of  these  owls  presents  two  totally  distinct  phases, 
which  "have  no  relation  to  sex,  age,  or  season," 
one  being  an  ashen  gray,  the  other  a  bright  rufous. 

Coming  to  a  drier  and  less  mossy  place  in  the 
woods,  I  am  amused  with  the  golden-crowned 
thrush,  —  which,  however,  is  no  thrush  at  all,  but 
a  warbler.  He  walks  on  the  ground  ahead  of 
me  with  such  an  easy,  gliding  motion,  and  with 
such  an  unconscious,  preoccupied  air,  jerking  his 
head  like  a  hen  or  a  partridge,  now  hurrying,  now 
slackening  his  pace,  that  I  pause  to  observe  him. 
I  sit  down,  he  pauses  to  observe  me,  and  extends 
his  pretty  ramblings  on  all  sides,  apparently  very 
much  engrossed  with  his  own  affairs,  but  never  los- 
ing sight  of  me.  But  few  of  the  birds  are  walkers, 
most  being  hoppers,  like  the  robin. 

Satisfied  that  I  have  no  hostile  intentions,  the 
pretty  pedestrian  mounts  a  limb  a  few  feet  from  the 
ground,  and  gives  me  the  benefit  of  one  of  his  musi- 
cal performances,  a  sort  of  accelerating  chant.  Com- 
mencing in  a  very  low  key,  which  makes  him  seem 
at  a  very  uncertain  distance,  he  grows  louder  and 
louder  till  his  body  quakes  and  his  chant  runs  into 
a  shriek,  ringing  in  my  ear  with  a  peculiar  sharp- 
ness. This  lay  may  be  represented  thus :  "  Teacher, 
teacher,  TEACHER,  TEACHER,  TEACHER!"  — 
95 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

the  accent  on  the  first  syllable  and  each  word  uttered 
with  increased  force  and  shrillness.  No  writer  with 
whom  I  am  acquainted  gives  him  credit  for  more 
musical  ability  than  is  displayed  in  this  strain. 
Yet  in  this  the  half  is  not  told.  He  has  a  far  rarer 
song,  which  he  reserves  for  some  nymph  whom  he 
meets  in  the  air.  Mounting  by  easy  flights  to  the 
top  of  the  tallest  tree,  he  launches  into  the  air  with 
a  sort  of  suspended,  hovering  flight,  like  certain 
of  the  finches,  and  bursts  into  a  perfect  ecstasy  of 
song,  —  clear,  ringing,  copious,  rivaling  the  gold- 
finch's in  vivacity,  and  the  linnet's  in  melody. 
This  strain  is  one  of  the  rarest  bits  of  bird  melody 
to  be  heard,  and  is  oftenest  indulged  in  late  in  the 
afternoon  or  after  sundown.  Over  the  woods,  hid 
from  view,  the  ecstatic  singer  warbles  his  finest 
strain.  In  this  song  you  instantly  detect  his  rela- 
tionship to  the  water-wagtail,  —  erroneously  called 
water-thrush,  —  whose  song  is  likewise  a  sudden 
burst,  full  and  ringing,  and  with  a  tone  of  youthful 
joyousness  in  it,  as  if  the  bird  had  just  had  some 
unexpected  good  fortune.  For  nearly  two  years 
this  strain  of  the  pretty  walker  was  little  more  than 
a  disembodied  voice  to  me,  and  I  was  puzzled  by  it 
as  Thoreau  by  his  mysterious  night- warbler,  which, 
by  the  way,  I  suspect  was  no  new  bird  at  all,  but 
one  he  was  otherwise  familiar  with.  The  little  bird 
himself  seems  disposed  to  keep  the  matter  a  secret, 
and  improves  every  opportunity  to  repeat  before 


A  TROUT  STREAM 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

you  his  shrill,  accelerating  lay,  as  if  this  were  quite 
enough  and  all  he  laid  claim  to.  Still,  I  trust  I 
am  betraying  no  confidence  in  making  the  matter 
public  here.  I  think  this  is  preeminently  his  love- 
song,  as  I  hear  it  oftenest  about  the  mating  season. 
I  have  caught  half-suppressed  bursts  of  it  from  two 
males  chasing  each  other  with  fearful  speed  through 
the  forest. 

Turning  to  the  left  from  the  old*road,  I  wander 
over  soft  logs  and  gray  yielding  debris,  across  the 
little  trout  brook,  until  I  emerge  in  the  overgrown 
Barkpeeling,  —  pausing  now  and  then  on  the  way 
to  admire  a  small,  solitary  white  flower  which  rises 
above  the  moss,  with  radical,  heart-shaped  leaves, 
and  a  blossom  precisely  like  the  liverwort  except 
in  color,  but  which  is  not  put  down  in  my  botany, 
—  or  to  observe  the  ferns,  of  which  I  count  six 
varieties,  some  gigantic  ones  nearly  shoulder-high. 

At  the  foot  of  a  rough,  scraggy  yellow  birch,  on  a 
bank  of  club-moss,  so  richly  inlaid  with  partridge- 
berry  and  curious  shining  leaves  —  with  here  and 
there  in  the  bordering  a  spire  of  the  false  winter- 
green  strung  with  faint  pink  flowers  and  exhaling 
the  breath  of  a  May  orchard  —  that  it  looks  too 
costly  a  couch  for  such  an  idler,  I  recline  to  note 
what  transpires.  The  sun  is  just  past  the  meridian, 
and  the  afternoon  chorus  is  not  yet  in  full  tune. 
Most  birds  sing  with  the  greatest  spirit  and  vivacity 
in  the  forenoon,  though  there  are  occasional  bursts 
97 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

later  in  the  day  in  which  nearly  all  voices  join  ; 
while  it  is  not  till  the  twilight  that  the  full  power 
and  solemnity  of  the  thrush's  hymn  is  felt. 

My  attention  is  soon  arrested  by  a  pair  of  hum- 
mingbirds, the  ruby-throated,  disporting  them- 
selves in  a  low  bush  a  few  yards  from  me.  The 
female  takes  shelter  amid  the  branches,  and  squeaks 
exultingly  as  the  male,  circling  above,  dives  down 
as  if  to  dislodge  her.  Seeing  me,  he  drops  like  a 
feather  on  a  slender  twig,  and  in  a  moment  both  are 
gone.  Then,  as  if  by  a  preconcerted  signal,  the 
throats  are  all  atune.  I  lie  on  my  back  with  eyes 
half  closed,  and  analyze  the  chorus  of  warblers, 
thrushes,  finches,  and  flycatchers ;  while,  soaring 
above  all,  a  little  withdrawn  and  alone  rises  the 
divine  contralto  of  the  hermit.  That  richly  modu- 
lated warble  proceeding  from  the  top  of  yonder 
birch,  and  which  unpracticed  ears  would  mistake 
for  the  voice  of  the  scarlet  tanager,  comes  from  that 
rare  visitant,  the  rose-breasted  grosbeak.  It  is  a 
strong,  vivacious  strain,  a  bright  noonday  song, 
full  of  health  and  assurance,  indicating  fine  talents 
in  the  performer,  but  not  genius.  As  I  come  up 
under  the  tree  he  casts  his  eye  down  at  me,  but  con- 
tinues his  song.  This  bird  is  said  to  be  quite  com- 
mon in  the  Northwest,  but  he  is  rare  in  the  East- 
ern districts.  His  beak  is  disproportionately  large 
and  heavy,  like  a  huge  nose,  which  slightly  mars 
his  good  looks;  but  Nature  has  made  it  up  to  him 
98 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

in  a  blush  rose  upon  his  breast,  and  the  most  deli- 
cate of  pink  linings  to  the  under  side  of  his  wings. 
His  back  is  variegated  black  and  white,  and  when 
flying  low  the  white  shows  conspicuously.  If  he 
passed  over  your  head,  you  would  note  the  delicate 
flush  under  his  wings. 

That  bit  of  bright  scarlet  on  yonder  dead  hem- 
lock, glowing  like  a  live  coal  against  the  dark  back- 
ground, seeming  almost  too  brilliant  for  the  severe 
northern  climate,  is  his  relative,  the  scarlet  tanager. 
I  occasionally  meet  him  in  the  deep  hemlocks,  and 
know  no  stronger  contrast  in  nature.  I  almost  fear 
he  will  kindle  the  dry  limb  on  which  he  alights. 
He  is  quite  a  solitary  bird,  and  in  this  section  seems 
to  prefer  the  high,  remote  woods,  even  going  quite 
to  the  mountain's  top.  Indeed,  the  event  of  my 
last  visit  to  the  mountain  was  meeting  one  of  these 
brilliant  creatures  near  the  summit,  in  full  song. 
The  breeze  carried  the  notes  far  and  wide.  He 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  elevation,  and  I  imagined  his 
song  had  more  scope  and  freedom  than  usual. 
When  he  had  flown  far  down  the  mountain-side, 
the  breeze  still  brought  me  his  finest  notes.  In 
plumage  he  is  the  most  brilliant  bird  we  have.  The 
bluebird  is  not  entirely  blue;  nor  will  the  indigo- 
bird  bear  a  close  inspection,  nor  the  goldfinch,  nor 
the  summer  redbird.  But  the  tanager  loses  nothing 
by  a  near  view;  the  deep  scarlet  of  his  body  and 
the  black  of  his  wings  and  tail  are  quite  perfect. 
99 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

This  is  his  holiday  suit;  in  the  fall  he  becomes  a 
dull  yellowish  green,  —  the  color  of  the  female  the 
whole  season. 

One  of  the  leading  songsters  in  this  choir  of  the 
old  Barkpeeling  is  the  purple  finch  or  linnet.  He 
sits  somewhat  apart,  usually  on  a  dead  hemlock, 
and  warbles  most  exquisitely.  He  is  one  of  our 
finest  songsters,  and  stands  at  the  head  of  the 
finches,  as  the  hermit  at  the  head  of  the  thrushes. 
His  song  approaches  an  ecstasy,  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  winter  wren's,  is  the  most  rapid  and 
copious  strain  to  be  heard  in  these  woods.  It  is 
quite  destitute  of  the  trills  and  the  liquid,  silvery, 
bubbling  notes  that  characterize  the  wren's;  but 
there  runs  through  it  a  round,  richly  modulated 
whistle,  very  sweet  and  very  pleasing.  The  call  of 
the  robin  is  brought  in  at  a  certain  point  with 
marked  effect,  and,  throughout,  the  variety  is  so 
great  and  the  strain  so  rapid  that  the  impression 
is  as  of  two  or  three  birds  singing  at  the  same  time. 
He  is  not  common  here,  and  I  only  find  him  in 
these  or  similar  woods.  His  color  is  peculiar,  and 
looks  as  if  it  might  have  been  imparted  by  dip- 
ping a  brown  bird  in  diluted  pokeberry  juice.  Two 
or  three  more  dippings  would  have  made  the  pur- 
ple complete.  The  female  is  the  color  of  the  song 
sparrow,  a  little  larger,  with  heavier  beak,  and  tail 
much  more  forked. 

In  a  little  opening  quite  free  from  brush  and 
100 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

trees,  I  step  down  to  bathe  my  hands  in  the  brook, 
when  a  small,  light  slate-colored  bird  flutters  out  of 
the  bank,  not  three  feet  from  my  head,  as  I  stoop 
down,  and,  as  if  severely  lamed  or  injured,  flutters 
through  the  grass  and  into  the  nearest  bush.  As  I 
do  not  follow,  but  remain  near  the  nest,  she  chips 
sharply,  which  brings  the  male,  and  I  see  it  is  the 
speckled  Canada  warbler.  I  find  no  authority  in 
the  books  for  this  bird  to  build  upon  the  ground, 
yet  here  is  the  nest,  made  chiefly  of  dry  grass,  set  in 
a  slight  excavation  in  the  bank  not  two  feet  from 
the  water,  and  looking  a  little  perilous  to  anything 
but  ducklings  or  sandpipers.  There  are  two  young 
birds  and  one  little  speckled  egg  just  pipped.  But 
how  is  this  ?  what  mystery  is  here  ?  One  nestling 
is  much  larger  than  the  other,  monopolizes  most  of 
the  nest,  and  lifts  its  open  mouth  far  above  that 
of  its  companion,  though  obviously  both  are  of  the 
same  age,  not  more  than  a  day  old.  Ah!  I  see; 
the  old  trick  of  the  cow  bunting,  with  a  stinging 
human  significance.  Taking  the  interloper  by  the 
nape  of  the  neck,  I  deliberately  drop  it  into  the 
water,  but  not  without  a  pang,  as  I  see  its  naked 
form,  convulsed  with  chills,  float  downstream. 
Cruel  ?  So  is  Nature  cruel.  I  take  one  life  to  save 
two.  In  less  than  two  days  this  pot-bellied  intruder 
would  have  caused  the  death  of  the  two  rightful 
occupants  of  the  nest ;  so  I  step  in  and  turn  things 
into  their  proper  channel  again. 
101 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

It  is  a  singular  freak  of  nature,  this  instinct 
which  prompts  one  bird  to  lay  its  eggs  in  the  nests 
of  others,  and  thus  shirk  the  responsibility  of  rear- 
ing its  own  young.  The  cow  buntings  always  resort 
to  this  cunning  trick;  and  when  one  reflects  upon 
their  numbers,  it  is  evident  that  these  little  trage- 
dies are  quite  frequent.  In  Europe  the  parallel 
case  is  that  of  the  cuckoo,  and  occasionally  our 
own  cuckoo  imposes  upon  a  robin  or  a  thrush  in 
the  same  manner.  The  cow  bunting  seems  to  have 
no  conscience  about  the  matter,  and,  so  far  as  I 
have  observed,  invariably  selects  the  nest  of  a  bird 
smaller  than  itself.  Its  egg  is  usually  the  first  to 
hatch;  its  young  overreaches  all  the  rest  when  food 
is  brought;  it  grows  with  great  rapidity,  spreads 
and  fills  the  nest,  and  the  starved  and  crowded 
occupants  soon  perish,  when  the  parent  bird  re- 
moves their  dead  bodies,  giving  its  whole  energy 
and  care  to  the  foster-child. 

The  warblers  and  smaller  flycatchers  are  gen- 
erally the  sufferers,  though  I  sometimes  see  the 
slate-colored  snowbird  unconsciously  duped  in  like 
manner;  and  the  other  day,  in  a  tall  tree  in 
the  woods,  I  discovered  the  black-throated  green- 
backed  warbler  devoting  itself  to  this  dusky,  over- 
grown foundling.  An  old  farmer  to  whom  I  pointed 
out  the  fact  was  much  surprised  that  such  things 
should  happen  in  his  woods  without  his  knowledge. 

These  birds  may  be  seen  prowling  through  all 
102 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

parts  of  the  woods  at  this  season,  watching  for  an 
opportunity  to  steal  their  egg  into  some  nest.  One 
day  while  sitting  on  a  log  I  saw  one  moving  by 
short  flights  through  the  trees  and  gradually  near- 
ing  the  ground.  Its  movements  were  hurried  and 
stealthy.  About  fifty  yards  from  me  it  disappeared 
behind  some  low  brush,  and  had  evidently  alighted 
upon  the  ground. 

After  waiting  a  few  moments  I  cautiously  walked 
in  the  direction.  When  about  halfway  I  acciden- 
tally made  a  slight  noise,  when  the  bird  flew  up, 
and  seeing  me,  hurried  off  out  of  the  woods.  Ar- 
rived at  the  place,  I  found  a  simple  nest  of  dry 
grass  and  leaves  partially  concealed  under  a  pros- 
trate branch.  I  took  it  to  be  the  nest  of  a  sparrow. 
There  were  three  eggs  in  the  nest,  and  one  lying 
about  a  foot  below  it  as  if  it  had  been  rolled  out, 
as  of  course  it  had.  It  suggested  the  thought  that 
perhaps,  when  the  cowbird  finds  the  full  comple- 
ment of  eggs  in  a  nest,  it  throws  out  one  and  de- 
posits its  own  instead.  I  revisited  the  nest  a  few 
days  afterward  and  found  an  egg  again  cast  out, 
but  none  had  been  put  in  its  place.  The  nest 
had  been  abandoned  by  its  owner  and  the  eggs 
were  stale. 

In  all  cases  where  I  have  found  this  egg,  I  have 
observed  both  male  and  female  of  the  cowbird  lin- 
gering near,  the  former  uttering  his  peculiar  liquid, 
glassy  note  from  the  tops  of  the  trees. 
103 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

In  July,  the  young  which  have  been  reared  in 
the  same  neighborhood,  and  which  are  now  of  a  dull 
fawn  color,  begin  to  collect  in  small  flocks,  which 
grow  to  be  quite  large  in  autumn. 

The  speckled  Canada  is  a  very  superior  warbler, 
having  a  lively,  animated  strain,  reminding  you  of 
certain  parts  of  the  canary's,  though  quite  broken 
and  incomplete;  the  bird,  the  while,  hopping  amid 
the  branches  with  increased  liveliness,  and  indul- 
ging in  fine  sibilant  chirps,  too  happy  to  keep  silent. 

His  manners  are  quite  marked.  He  has  a  habit 
of  courtesying  when  he  discovers  you  which  is  very 
pretty.  In  form  he  is  an  elegant  bird,  somewhat 
slender,  his  back  of  a  bluish  lead-color  becoming 
nearly  black  on  his  crown  :  the  under  part  of  his 
body,  from  his  throat  down,  is  of  a  light,  delicate 
yellow,  with  a  belt  of  black  dots  across  his  breast. 
He  has  a  fine  eye,  surrounded  by  a  light  yellow 
ring. 

The  parent  birds  are  much  disturbed  by  my  pre- 
sence, and  keep  up  a  loud  emphatic  chirping,  which 
attracts  the  attention  of  their  sympathetic  neigh- 
bors, and  one  after  another  they  come  to  see  what 
has  happened.  The  chestnut-sided  and  the  Black- 
burnian  come  in  company.  The  black  and  yellow 
warbler  pauses  a  moment  and  hastens  away;  the 
Maryland  yellow-throat  peeps  shyly  from  the  lower 
bushes  and  utters  his  "Fip!  fip!"  in  sympathy; 
the  wood  pewee  comes  straight  to  the  tree  overhead, 
104 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

and  the  red-eyed  vireo  lingers  and  lingers,  eying 
me  with  a  curious,  innocent  look,  evidently  much 
puzzled.  But  all  disappear  again,  one  by  one,  ap- 
parently without  a  word  of  condolence  or  encour- 
agement to  the  distressed  pair.  I  have  often  noticed 
among  birds  this  show  of  sympathy,  —  if  indeed 
it  be  sympathy,  and  not  merely  curiosity,  or  desire 
to  be  forewarned  of  the  approach  of  a  common 
danger. 

An  hour  afterward  I  approach  the  place,  find  all 
still,  and  the  mother  bird  upon  the  nest.  As  I 
draw  near  she  seems  to  sit  closer,  her  eyes  growing 
large  with  an  inexpressibly  wild,  beautiful  look. 
She  keeps  her  place  till  I  am  within  two  paces  of 
her,  when  she  flutters  away  as  at  first.  In  the 
brief  interval  the  remaining  egg  has  hatched,  and 
the  two  little  nestlings  lift  their  heads  without  being 
jostled  or  overreached  by  any  strange  bedfellow. 
A  week  afterward  and  they  were  flown  away,  —  so 
brief  is  the  infancy  of  birds.  And  the  wonder  is 
that  they  escape,  even  for  this  short  time,  the  skunks 
and  minks  and  muskrats  that  abound  here,  and  that 
have  a  decided  partiality  for  such  tidbits. 

I  pass  on  through  the  old  Barkpeeling,  now 
threading  an  obscure  cow-path  or  an  overgrown 
wood-road;  now  clambering  over  soft  and  decayed 
logs,  or  forcing  my  way  through  a  network  of  briers 
and  hazels;  now  entering  a  perfect  bower  of  wild 
cherry,  beech,  and  soft  maple;  now  emerging  into 
105 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

a  little  grassy  lane,  golden  with  buttercups  or  white 
with  daisies,  or  wading  waist-deep  hi  the  red  rasp- 
berry-bushes. 

Whir!  whir!  whir!  and  a  brood  of  half -grown 
partridges  start  up  like  an  explosion,  a  few  paces 
from  me,  and,  scattering,  disappear  in  the  bushes 
on  all  sides.  Let  me  sit  down  here  behind  the 
screen  of  ferns  and  briers,  and  hear  this  wild  hen 
of  the  woods  call  together  her  brood.  At  what  an 
early  age  the  partridge  flies !  Nature  seems  to  con- 
centrate her  energies  on  the  wing,  making  the 
safety  of  the  bird  a  point  to  be  looked  after  first; 
and  while  the  body  is  covered  with  down,  and  no 
signs  of  feathers  are  visible,  the  wing-quills  sprout 
and  unfold,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  the 
young  make  fair  headway  in  flying. 

The  same  rapid  development  of  wing  may  be 
observed  in  chickens  and  turkeys,  but  not  in  water- 
fowls, nor  in  birds  that  are  safely  housed  in  the 
nest  till  full-fledged.  The  other  day,  by  a  brook, 
I  came  suddenly  upon  a  young  sandpiper,  a  most 
beautiful  creature,  enveloped  in  a  soft  gray  down, 
swift  and  nimble  and  apparently  a  week  or  two  old, 
but  with  no  signs  of  plumage  either  of  body  or 
wing.  And  it  needed  none,  for  it  escaped  me  by 
taking  to  the  water  as  readily  as  if  it  had  flown 
with  wings. 

Hark !  there  arises  over  there  in  the  brush  a  soft, 
persuasive  cooing,  a  sound  so  subtle  and  wild  and 
106 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

unobtrusive  that  it  requires  the  most  alert  and 
watchful  ear  to  hear  it.  How  gentle  and  solicitous 
and  full  of  yearning  love!  It  is  the  voice  of  the 
mother  hen.  Presently  a  faint  timid  "Yeap!" 
which  almost  eludes  the  ear,  is  heard  in  various 
directions,  —  the  young  responding.  As  no  danger 
seems  near,  the  cooing  of  the  parent  bird  is  soon 
a  very  audible  clucking  call,  and  the  young  move 
cautiously  in  the  direction.  Let  me  step  never  so 
carefully  from  my  hiding-place,  and  all  sounds  in- 
stantly cease,  and  I  search  in  vain  for  either  parent 
or  young. 

The  partridge  is  one  of  our  most  native  and  char- 
acteristic birds.  The  woods  seem  good  to  be  in 
where  I  find  him.  He  gives  a  habitable  air  to  the 
forest,  and  one  feels  as  if  the  rightful  occupant  was 
really  at  home.  The  woods  where  I  do  not  find 
him  seem  to  want  something,  as  if  suffering  from 
some  neglect  of  Nature.  And  then  he  is  such  a 
splendid  success,  so  hardy  and  vigorous.  I  think 
he  enjoys  the  cold  and  the  snow.  His  wings  seem 
to  rustle  with  more  fervency  in  midwinter.  If  the 
snow  falls  very  fast,  and  promises  a  heavy  storm, 
he  will  complacently  sit  down  and  allow  himself  to 
be  snowed  under.  Approaching  him  at  such  times, 
he  suddenly  bursts  out  of  the  snow  at  your  feet, 
scattering  the  flakes  in  all  directions,  and  goes 
humming  away  through  the  woods  like  a  bomb- 
shell, —  a  picture  of  native  spirit  and  success. 
107 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

His  drum  is  one  of  the  most  welcome  and  beau- 
tiful sounds  of  spring.  Scarcely  have  the  trees  ex- 
panded their  buds,  when,  in  the  still  April  morn- 
ings, or  toward  nightfall,  you  hear  the  hum  of  his 
devoted  wings.  He  selects  not,  as  you  would  pre- 
dict, a  dry  and  resinous  log,  but  a  decayed  and 
crumbling  one,  seeming  to  give  the  preference  to 
old  oak-logs  that  are  partly  blended  with  the  soil. 
If  a  log  to  his  taste  cannot  be  found,  he  sets  up 
his  altar  on  a  rock,  which  becomes  resonant  beneath 
his  fervent  blows.  Who  has  seen  the  partridge 
drum  ?  It  is  the  next  thing  to  catching  a  weasel 
asleep,  though  by  much  caution  and  tact  it  may  be 
done.  He  does  not  hug  the  log,  but  stands  very 
erect,  expands  his  ruff,  gives  two  introductory 
blows,  pauses  half  a  second,  and  then  resumes,  strik- 
ing faster  and  faster  till  the  sound  becomes  a  contin- 
uous, unbroken  whir,  the  whole  lasting  less  than 
half  a  minute.  The  tips  of  his  wings  barely  brush 
the  log,  so  that  the  sound  is  produced  rather  by  the 
force  of  the  blows  upon  the  air  and  upon  his  own 
body  as  in  flying.  One  log  will  be  used  for  many 
years,  though  not  by  the  same  drummer.  It  seems 
to  be  a  sort  of  temple  and  held  in  great  respect. 
The  bird  always  approaches  on  foot,  and  leaves  it 
in  the  same  quiet  manner,  unless  rudely  disturbed. 
He  is  very  cunning,  though  his  wit  is  not  profound. 
It  is  difficult  to  approach  him  by  stealth;  you  will 
try  many  times  before  succeeding;  but  seem  to  pass 
108 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

by  him  in  a  great  hurry,  making  all  the  noise  pos- 
sible, and  with  plumage  furled  he  stands  as  immov- 
able as  a  knot,  allowing  you  a  good  view,  and  a 
good  shot  if  you  are  a  sportsman. 

Passing  along  one  of  the  old  Barkpeelers*  roads 
which  wander  aimlessly  about,  I  am  attracted  by  a 
singularly  brilliant  and  emphatic  warble,  proceed- 
ing from  the  low  bushes,  and  quickly  suggesting 
the  voice  of  the  Maryland  yellow-throat.  Presently 
the  singer  hops  up  on  a  dry  twig,  and  gives  me  a 
good  view :  lead-colored  head  and  neck,  becoming 
nearly  black  on  the  breast;  clear  olive-green  back, 
and  yellow  belly.  From  his  habit  of  keeping  near 
the  ground,  even  hopping  upon  it  occasionally,  I 
know  him  to  be  a  ground  warbler;  from  his  dark 
breast  the  ornithologist  has  added  the  expletive 
mourning,  hence  the  mourning  ground  warbler. 

Of  this  bird  both  Wilson  and  Audubon  confessed 
their  comparative  ignorance,  neither  ever  having 
seen  its  nest  or  become  acquainted  with  its  haunts 
and  general  habits.  Its  song  is  quite  striking  and 
novel,  though  its  voice  at  once  suggests  the  class  of 
warblers  to  which  it  belongs.  It  is  very  shy  and 
wary,  flying  but  a  few  feet  at  a  time,  and  studiously 
concealing  itself  from  your  view.  I  discover  but 
one  pair  here.  The  female  has  food  in  her  beak, 
but  carefully  avoids  betraying  the  locality  of  her 
nest.  The  ground  warblers  all  have  one  notable 
feature,  —  very  beautiful  legs,  as  white  and  delicate 
109 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

as  if  they  had  always  worn  silk  stockings  and  satin 
slippers.  High  tree  warblers  have  dark  brown  or 
black  legs  and  more  brilliant  plumage,  but  less 
musical  ability. 

The  chestnut-sided  belongs  to  the  latter  class. 
He  is  quite  common  in  these  woods,  as  in  all  the 
woods  about.  He  is  one  of  the  rarest  and  hand- 
somest of  the  warblers ;  his  white  breast  and  throat, 
chestnut  sides,  and  yellow  crown  show  conspicu- 
ously. Last  year  I  found  the  nest  of  one  in  an  up- 
lying  beech  wood,  in  a  low  bush  near  the  roadside, 
where  cows  passed  and  browsed  daily.  Things 
went  on  smoothly  till  the  cow  bunting  stole  her  egg 
into  it,  when  other  mishaps  followed,  and  the  nest 
was  soon  empty.  A  characteristic  attitude  of  the 
male  during  this  season  is  a  slight  drooping  of  the 
wings,  and  tail  a  little  elevated,  which  gives  him  a 
very  smart,  bantam-like  appearance.  His  song  is 
fine  and  hurried,  and  not  much  of  itself,  but  has  its 
place  in  the  general  chorus. 

A  far  sweeter  strain,  falling  on  the  ear  with  the 
true  sylvan  cadence,  is  that  of  the  black-throated 
green-backed  warbler,  whom  I  meet  at  various 
points.  He  has  no  superiors  among  the  true  Sylvia. 
His  song  is  very  plain  and  simple,  but  remarkably 
pure  and  tender,  and  might  be  indicated  by  straight 

lines,  thus, V~>  ^e  first  two  marks 

representing  two  sweet,  silvery  notes,  in  the  same 

pitch  of  voice,  and  quite  unaccented  ;  the  latter 

110 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

marks,  the  concluding  notes,  wherein  the  tone 
and  inflection  are  changed.  The  throat  and  breast 
of  the  male  are  a  rich  black  like  velvet,  his  face 
yellow,  and  his  back  a  yellowish  green. 

Beyond  the  Barkpeeling,  where  the  woods  are 
mingled  hemlock,  beech,  and  birch,  the  languid 
midsummer  note  of  the  black-throated  blue-back 
falls  on  my  ear.  "  Twea,  twea,  twea-e-e ! "  in  the  up- 
ward slide,  and  with  the  peculiar  z-ing  of  summer 
insects,  but  not  destitute  of  a  certain  plaintive 
cadence.  It  is  one  of  the  most  languid,  unhurried 
sounds  in  all  the  woods.  I  feel  like  reclining  upon 
the  dry  leaves  at  once.  Audubon  says  he  has 
never  heard  his  love-song;  but  this  is  all  the  love- 
song  he  has,  and  he  is  evidently  a  very  plain  hero 
with  his  little  brown  mistress.  He  assumes  few 
attitudes,  and  is  not  a  bold  and  striking  gymnast, 
like  many  of  his  kindred.  He  has  a  preference  for 
dense  woods  of  beech  and  maple,  moves  slowly  amid 
the  lower  branches  and  smaller  growths,  keeping 
from  eight  to  ten  feet  from  the  ground,  and  repeat- 
ing now  and  then  his  listless,  indolent  strain.  His 
back  and  crown  are  dark  blue ;  his  throat  and 
breast,  black;  his  belly,  pure  white;  and  he  has  a 
white  spot  on  each  wing. 

Here  and  there  I  meet  the  black  and  white  creep- 
ing warbler,  whose  fine  strain  reminds  me  of  hair- 
wire.  It  is  unquestionably  the  finest  bird-song  to 
be  heard.  Few  insect  strains  will  compare  with  it 
111 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

in  this  respect;  while  it  has  none  of  the  harsh, 
brassy  character  of  the  latter,  being  very  delicate 
and  tender. 

That  sharp,  uninterrupted,  but  still  continued 
warble,  which,  before  one  has  learned  to  discrim- 
inate closely,  he  is  apt  to  confound  with  the  red- 
eyed  vireo's,  is  that  of  the  solitary  warbling  vireo, 
—  a  bird  slightly  larger,  much  rarer,  and  with  a 
louder,  less  cheerful  and  happy  strain.  I  see  him 
hopping  along  lengthwise  of  the  limbs,  and  note 
the  orange  tinge  of  his  breast  and  sides  and  the 
white  circle  around  his  eye. 

But  the  declining  sun  and  the  deepening  shadows 
admonish  me  that  this  ramble  must  be  brought  to 
a  close,  even  though  only  the  leading  characters  hi 
this  chorus  of  forty  songsters  have  been  described, 
and  only  a  small  portion  of  the  venerable  old  woods 
explored.  In  a  secluded  swampy  corner  of  the  old 
Barkpeeling,  where  I  find  the  great  purple  orchis  in 
bloom,  and  where  the  foot  of  man  or  beast  seems 
never  to  have  trod,  I  linger  long,  contemplating  the 
wonderful  display  of  lichens  and  mosses  that  over- 
run both  the  smaller  and  the  larger  growths.  Every 
bush  and  branch  and  sprig  is  dressed  up  in  the  most 
rich  and  fantastic  of  liveries;  and,  crowning  all, 
the  long  bearded  moss  festoons  the  branches  or 
sways  gracefully  from  the  limbs.  Every  twig  looks 
a  century  old,  though  green  leaves  tip  the  end  of  it. 
A  young  yellow  birch  has  a  venerable,  patriarchal 
112 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

look,  and  seems  ill  at  ease  under  such  premature 
honors.  A  decayed  hemlock  is  draped  as  if  by 
hands  for  some  solemn  festival. 

Mounting  toward  the  upland  again,  I  pause  rev- 
erently as  the  hush  and  stillness  of  twilight  come 
upon  the  woods.  It  is  the  sweetest,  ripest  hour  of 
the  day.  And  as  the  hermit's  evening  hymn  goes 
up  from  the  deep  solitude  below  me,  I  experience 
that  serene  exaltation  of  sentiment  of  which  music, 
literature,  and  religion  are  but  the  faint  types  and 
symbols. 

1865. 


V 

BIRDS'-NESTS 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

HOW  alert  and  vigilant  the  birds  are,  even 
when  absorbed  in  building  their  nests !  In  an 
open  space  in  the  woods  I  see  a  pair  of  cedar-birds 
collecting  moss  from  the  top  of  a  dead  tree.  Fol- 
lowing the  direction  in  which  they  fly,  I  soon  dis- 
cover the  nest  placed  in  the  fork  of  a  small  soft 
maple,  which  stands  amid  a  thick  growth  of  wild 
cherry-trees  and  young  beeches.  Carefully  conceal- 
ing myself  beneath  it,  without  any  fear  that  the 
workmen  will  hit  me  with  a  chip  or  let  fall  a  tool, 
I  await  the  return  of  the  busy  pair.  Presently  I 
hear  the  well-known  note,  and  the  female  sweeps 
down  and  settles  unsuspectingly  into  the  half-fin- 
ished structure.  Hardly  have  her  wings  rested  be- 
fore her  eye  has  penetrated  my  screen,  and  with  a 
hurried  movement  of  alarm  she  darts  away.  In  a 
moment  the  male,  with  a  tuft  of  wool  in  his  beak 
(for  there  is  a  sheep  pasture  near),  joins  her,  and 
the  two  reconnoitre  the  premises  from  the  surround- 
ing bushes.  With  their  beaks  still  loaded,  they 
move  around  with  a  frightened  look,  and  refuse  to 
approach  the  nest  till  I  have  moved  off  and  lam 
117 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

down  behind  a  log.  Then  one  of  them  ventures  to 
alight  upon  the  nest,  but,  still  suspecting  all  is  not 
right,  quickly  darts  away  again.  Then  they  both 
together  come,  and  after  much  peeping  and  spying 
about,  and  apparently  much  anxious  consultation, 
cautiously  proceed  to  work.  In  less  than  half  an 
hour  it  would  seem  that  wool  enough  has  been 
brought  to  supply  the  whole  family,  real  and  pro- 
spective, with  socks,  if  needles  and  fingers  could  be 
found  fine  enough  to  knit  it  up.  In  less  than  a  week 
the  female  has  begun  to  deposit  her  eggs, —  four  of 
them  in  as  many  days,  —  white  tinged  with  purple, 
with  black  spots  on  the  larger  end.  After  two  weeks 
of  incubation  the  young  are  out. 

Excepting  the  American  goldfinch,  this  bird  builds 
later  in  the  spring  than  any  other,  —  its  nest,  in  our 
northern  climate,  seldom  being  undertaken  till  July. 
As  with  the  goldfinch,  the  reason  is,  probably,  that 
suitable  food  for  the  young  cannot  be  had  at  an 
earlier  period. 

Like  most  of  our  common  species,  as  the  robin, 
sparrow,  bluebird,  pewee,  wren,  etc.,  this  bird 
sometimes  seeks  wild,  remote  localities  in  which  to 
rear  its  young;  at  others,  takes  up  its  abode  near 
that  of  man.  I  knew  a  pair  of  cedar-birds,  one  sea- 
son, to  build  in  an  apple-tree,  the  branches  of  which 
rubbed  against  the  house.  For  a  day  or  two  before 
the  first  straw  was  laid,  I  noticed  the  pair  care- 
fully exploring  every  branch  of  the  tree,  the  female 
118 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

taking  the  lead,  the  male  following  her  with  an 
anxious  note  and  look.  It  was  evident  that  the  wife 
was  to  have  her  choice  this  time;  and,  like  one 
who  thoroughly  knew  her  mind,  she  was  proceed- 
ing to  take  it.  Finally  the  site  was  chosen  upon  a 
high  branch,  extending  over  one  low  wing  of  the 
house.  Mutual  congratulations  and  caresses  fol- 
lowed, when  both  birds  flew  away  hi  quest  of  build- 
ing material.  That  most  freely  used  is  a  sort  of 
cotton-bearing  plant  which  grows  in  old  wornout 
fields.  The  nest  is  large  for  the  size  of  the  bird, 
and  very  soft.  It  is  in  every  respect  a  first-class 
domicile. 

On  another  occasion,  while  walking  or  rather 
sauntering  in  the  woods  (for  I  have  discovered  that 
one  cannot  run  and  read  the  book  of  nature),  my 
attention  was  arrested  by  a  dull  hammering,  evi- 
dently but  a  few  rods  off.  I  said  to  myself,  "  Some 
one  is  building  a  house."  From  what  I  had  pre- 
viously seen,  I  suspected  the  builder  to  be  a  red- 
headed woodpecker  in  the  top  of  a  dead  oak  stub 
near  by.  Moving  cautiously  in  that  direction,  I 
perceived  a  round  hole,  about  the  size  of  that  made 
by  an  inch-and-a-half  auger,  near  the  top  of  the 
decayed  trunk,  and  the  white  chips  of  the  workman 
strewing  the  ground  beneath.  When  but  a  few 
paces  from  the  tree,  my  foot  pressed  upon  a  dry 
twig,  which  gave  forth  a  very  slight  snap.  Instantly 
the  hammering  ceased,  and  a  scarlet  head  appeared 
119 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

at  the  door.  Though  I  remained  perfectly  motion- 
less, forbearing  even  to  wink  till  my  eyes  smarted, 
the  bird  refused  to  go  on  with  his  work,  but  flew 
quietly  off  to  a  neighboring  tree.  What  surprised 
me  was,  that,  amid  his  busy  occupation  down  in 
the  heart  of  the  old  tree,  he  should  have  been  so 
alert  and  watchful  as  to  catch  the  slightest  sound 
from  without. 

The  woodpeckers  all  build  in  about  the  same 
manner,  excavating  the  trunk  or  branch  of  a  de- 
cayed tree  and  depositing  the  eggs  on  the  fine  frag- 
ments of  wood  at  the  bottom  of  the  cavity.  Though 
the  nest  is  not  especially  an  artistic  work, — requir- 
ing strength  rather  than  skill,  —  yet  the  eggs  and 
the  young  of  few  other  birds  are  so  completely 
housed  from  the  elements,  or  protected  from  their 
natural  enemies,  the  jays,  crows,  hawks,  and  owls. 
A  tree  with  a  natural  cavity  is  never  selected,  but 
one  which  has  been  dead  just  long  enough  to  have 
become  soft  and  brittle  throughout.  The  bird  goes 
in  horizontally  for  a  few  inches,  making  a  hole  per- 
fectly round  and  smooth  and  adapted  to  his  size, 
then  turns  downward,  gradually  enlarging  the  hole, 
as  he  proceeds,  to  the  depth  of  ten,  fifteen,  twenty 
inches,  according  to  the  softness  of  the  tree  and  the 
urgency  of  the  mother  bird  to  deposit  her  eggs. 
While  excavating,  male  and  female  work  alternately. 
After  one  has  been  engaged  fifteen  or  twenty  min- 
utes, drilling  and  carrying  out  chips,  it  ascends  to 
120 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

an  upper  limb,  utters  a  loud  call  or  two,  when  its 
mate  soon  appears,  and,  alighting  near  it  on  the 
branch,  the  pair  chatter  and  caress  a  moment,  then 
the  fresh  one  enters  the  cavity  and  the  other  flies 
away. 

A  few  days  since  I  climbed  up  to  the  nest  of  the 
downy  woodpecker,  hi  the  decayed  top  of  a  sugar 
maple.  For  better  protection  against  driving  rains, 
the  hole,  which  was  rather  more  than  an  inch  in 
diameter,  was  made  immediately  beneath  a  branch 
which  stretched  out  almost  horizontally  from  the 
main  stem.  It  appeared  merely  a  deeper  shadow 
upon  the  dark  and  mottled  surface  of  the  bark  with 
which  the  branches  were  covered,  and  could  not  be 
detected  by  the  eye  until  one  was  within  a  few  feet 
of  it.  The  young  chirped  vociferously  as  I  ap- 
proached the  nest,  thinking  it  was  the  old  one  with 
food;  but  the  clamor  suddenly  ceased  as  I  put 
my  hand  on  that  part  of  the  trunk  in  which  they 
were  concealed,  the  unusual  jarring  and  rustling 
alarming  them  into  silence.  The  cavity,  which  was 
about  fifteen  inches  deep,  was  gourd-shaped,  and 
was  wrought  out  with  great  skill  and  regularity.  The 
walls  were  quite  smooth  and  clean  and  new. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  circumstance  of  observing 
a  pair  of  yellow-bellied  woodpeckers  —  the  most 
rare  and  secluded,  and,  next  to  the  red-headed,  the 
most  beautiful  species  found  in  our  woods  —  breed- 
ing in  an  old,  truncated  beech  in  the  Beaverkill 
121 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

Mountains,  an  offshoot  of  the  Catskills.  We  had 
been  traveling,  three  of  us,  all  day  in  search  of  a 
trout  lake,  which  lay  far  in  among  the  mountains, 
had  twice  lost  our  course  in  the  trackless  forest, 
and,  weary  and  hungry,  had  sat  down  to  rest  upon 
a  decayed  log.  The  chattering  of  the  young,  and 
the  passing  to  and  fro  of  the  parent  birds,  soon  ar- 
rested my  attention.  The  entrance  to  the  nest  was 
on  the  east  side  of  the  tree,  about  twenty-five  feet 
from  the  ground.  At  intervals  of  scarcely  a  min- 
ute, the  old  birds,  one  after  the  other,  would  alight 
upon  the  edge  of  the  hole  with  a  grub  or  worm  in 
their  beaks;  then  each  in  turn  would  make  a  bow 
or  two,  cast  an  eye  quickly  around,  and  by  a  single 
movement  place  itself  in  the  neck  of  the  passage. 
Here  it  would  pause  a  moment,  as  if  to  determine 
in  which  expectant  mouth  to  place  the  morsel,  and 
then  disappear  within.  In  about  half  a  minute, 
during  which  time  the  chattering  of  the  young 
gradually  subsided,  the  bird  would  again  emerge, 
but  this  time  bearing  in  its  beak  the  ordure  of  one 
of  the  helpless  family.  Flying  away  very  slowly 
with  head  lowered  and  extended,  as  if  anxious  to 
hold  the  offensive  object  as  far  from  its  plumage  as 
possible,  the  bird  dropped  the  unsavory  morsel  in 
the  course  of  a  few  yards,  and,  alighting  on  a  tree, 
wiped  its  bill  on  the  bark  and  moss.  This  seems 
to  be  the  order  all  day, — carrying  in  and  carrying 
out.  I  watched  the  birds  for  an  hour,  while  my 
122 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

companions  were  taking  their  turn  in  exploring 
the  lay  of  the  land  around  us,  and  noted  no  varia- 
tion in  the  programme.  It  would  be  curious  to  know 
it  the  young  are  fed  and  waited  upon  in  regular 
order,  and  how,  amid  the  darkness  and  the  crowded 
state  of  the  apartment,  the  matter  is  so  neatly  man- 
aged. But  ornithologists  are  all  silent  upon  the 
subject. 

This  practice  of  the  birds  is  not  so  uncommon 
as  it  might  at  first  seem.  It  is  indeed  almost  an 
invariable  rule  among  all  land  birds.  With  wood- 
peckers and  kindred  species,  and  with  birds  that 
burrow  in  the  ground,  as  bank  swallows,  king- 
fishers, etc.,  it  is  a  necessity.  The  accumulation  of 
the  excrement  in  the  nest  would  prove  most  fatal 
to  the  young. 

But  even  among  birds  that  neither  bore  nor  mine, 
but  which  build  a  shallow  nest  on  the  branch  of  a 
tree  or  upon  the  ground,  as  the  robin,  the  finches, 
the  buntings,  etc.,  the  ordure  of  the  young  is  re- 
moved to  a  distance  by  the  parent  bird.  When 
the  robin  is  seen  going  away  from  its  brood  with  a 
slow,  heavy  flight,  entirely  different  from  its  manner 
a  moment  before  on  approaching  the  nest  with  a 
cherry  or  worm,  it  is  certain  to  be  engaged  in  this 
office.  One  may  observe  the  social  sparrow,  when 
feeding  its  young,  pause  a  moment  after  the  worm 
has  been  given  and  hop  around  on  the  brink  of  the 
nest  observing  the  movements  within. 
123 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

The  instinct  of  cleanliness  no  doubt  prompts  the 
action  in  all  cases,  though  the  disposition  to  secrecy 
or  concealment  may  not  be  unmixed  with  it. 

The  swallows  form  an  exception  to  the  rule,  the 
excrement  being  voided  by  the  young  over  the 
brink  of  the  nest.  They  form  an  exception,  also, 
to  the  rule  of  secrecy,  aiming  not  so  much  to  con- 
ceal the  nest  as  to  render  it  inaccessible. 

Other  exceptions  are  the  pigeons,  hawks,  and 
water-fowls. 

But  to  return.  Having  a  good  chance  to  note 
the  color  and  markings  of  the  woodpeckers  as  they 
passed  in  and  out  at  the  opening  of  the  nest,  I  saw 
that  Audubon  had  made  a  mistake  in  figuring  or 
describing  the  female  of  this  species  with  the  red 
spot  upon  the  head.  I  have  seen  a  number  of  pairs 
of  them,  and  in  no  instance  have  I  seen  the  mother 
bird  marked  with  red. 

The  male  was  in  full  plumage,  and  I  reluctantly 
shot  him  for  a  specimen.  Passing  by  the  place 
again  next  day,  I  paused  a  moment  to  note  how 
matters  stood.  I  confess  it  was  not  without  some 
compunctions  that  I  heard  the  cries  of  the  young 
birds,  and  saw  the  widowed  mother,  her  cares  now 
doubled,  hastening  to  and  fro  in  the  solitary  woods. 
She  would  occasionally  pause  expectantly  on  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  and  utter  a  loud  call. 

It  usually  happens,  when  the  male  of  any  species 
is  killed  during  the  breeding  season,  that  the  female 
124 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

soon  procures  another  mate.  There  are,  most  likely, 
always  a  few  unmated  birds  of  both  sexes  within 
a  given  range,  and  through  these  the  broken  links 
may  be  restored.  Audubon  or  Wilson,  I  forget 
which,  tells  of  a  pair  of  fish  hawks,  or  ospreys,  that 
built  their  nest  in  an  ancient  oak.  The  male  was 
so  zealous  in  the  defense  of  the  young  that  he  ac- 
tually attacked  with  beak  and  claw  a  person  who 
attempted  to  climb  into  his  nest,  putting  his  face 
and  eyes  in  great  jeopardy.  Arming  himself  with 
a  heavy  club,  the  climber  felled  the  gallant  bird  to 
the  ground  and  killed  him.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
days  the  female  had  procured  another  mate.  But 
naturally  enough  the  stepfather  showed  none  of  the 
spirit  and  pluck  in  defense  of  the  brood  that  had 
been  displayed  by  the  original  parent.  When  dan- 
ger was  nigh  he  was  seen  afar  off,  sailing  around  in 
placid  unconcern. 

It  is  generally  known  that  when  either  the  wild 
turkey  or  domestic  turkey  begins  to  lay,  and  after- 
wards to  sit  and  rear  the  brood,  she  secludes  herself 
from  the  male,  who  then,  very  sensibly,  herds  with 
others  of  his  sex,  and  betakes  himself  to  haunts  of 
his  own  till  male  and  female,  old  and  young,  meet 
again  on  common  ground,  late  in  the  fall.  But  rob 
the  sitting  bird  of  her  eggs,  or  destroy  her  tender 
young,  and  she  immediately  sets  out  in  quest  of  a 
male,  who  is  no  laggard  when  he  hears  her  call. 
The  same  is  true  of  ducks  and  other  aquatic  fowls. 
125 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

The  propagating  instinct  is  strong,  and  surmounts 
all  ordinary  difficulties.  No  doubt  the  widowhood 
I  had  caused  in  the  case  of  the  woodpeckers  was  of 
short  duration,  and  chance  brought,  or  the  widow 
drummed  up,  some  forlorn  male,  who  was  not  dis- 
mayed by  the  prospect  of  having  a  large  family  of 
half-grown  birds  on  his  hands  at  the  outset. 

I  have  seen  a  fine  cock  robin  paying  assiduous 
addresses  to  a  female  bird  as  late  as  the  middle  of 
July;  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  his  intentions  were 
honorable.  I  watched  the  pair  for  half  an  hour. 
The  hen,  I  took  it,  was  in  the  market  for  the  second 
time  that  season;  but  the  cock,  from  his  bright, 
unfaded  plumage,  looked  like  a  new  arrival.  The 
hen  resented  every  advance  of  the  male.  In  vain 
he  strutted  around  her  and  displayed  his  fine  fea- 
thers; every  now  and  then  she  would  make  at  him 
in  a  most  spiteful  manner.  He  followed  her  to  the 
ground,  poured  into  her  ear  a  fine,  half-suppressed 
warble,  offered  her  a  worm,  flew  back  to  the  tree 
again  with  a  great  spread  of  plumage,  hopped 
around  her  on  the  branches,  chirruped,  chattered, 
flew  gallantly  at  an  intruder,  and  was  back  in  an 
instant  at  her  side.  No  use,  —  she  cut  him  short  at 
every  turn. 

The  denouement  I  cannot  relate,  as  the  artful  bird, 
followed  by  her  ardent  suitor,  soon  flew  away  beyond 
my  sight.  It  may  not  be  rash  to  conclude,  how- 
ever, that  she  held  out  no  longer  than  was  prudent. 
126 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

On  the  whole,  there  seems  to  be  a  system  of 
Women's  Rights  prevailing  among  the  birds,  which, 
contemplated  from  the  standpoint  of  the  male,  is 
quite  admirable.  In  almost  all  cases  of  joint  inter- 
est, the  female  bird  is  the  most  active.  She  deter- 
mines the  site  of  the  nest,  and  is  usually  the  most 
absorbed  in  its  construction.  Generally,  she  is  more 
vigilant  in  caring  for  the  young,  and  manifests  the 
most  concern  when  danger  threatens.  Hour  after 
hour  I  have  seen  the  mother  of  a  brood  of  blue 
grosbeaks  pass  from  the  nearest  meadow  to  the  tree 
that  held  her  nest,  with  a  cricket  or  grasshopper  in 
her  bill,  while  her  better-dressed  half  was  singing 
serenely  on  a  distant  tree  or  pursuing  his  pleasure 
amid  the  branches. 

Yet  among  the  majority  of  our  song-birds  the 
male  is  most  conspicuous  both  by  his  color  and 
manners  and  by  his  song,  and  is  to  that  extent  a 
shield  to  the  female.  It  is  thought  that  the  female 
is  humbler  clad  for  her  better  concealment  during 
incubation.  But  this  is  not  satisfactory,  as  in  some 
cases  she  is  relieved  from  time  to  time  by  the  male. 
In  the  case  of  the  domestic  dove,  for  instance, 
promptly  at  midday  the  cock  is  found  upon  the 
nest.  I  should  say  that  the  dull  or  neutral  tints  of 
the  female  were  a  provision  of  nature  for  her  greater 
safety  at  all  times,  as  her  life  is  far  more  precious 
to  the  species  than  that  of  the  male.  The  indis- 
pensable office  of  the  male  reduces  itself  to  little 
127 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

more  than  a  moment  of  time,  while  that  of  his  mate 
extends  over  days  and  weeks,  if  not  months.1 

In  migrating  northward,  the  males  precede  the 
females  by  eight  or  ten  days;  returning  in  the  fall, 
the  females  and  young  precede  the  males  by  about 
the  same  time. 

After  the  woodpeckers  have  abandoned  their 
nests,  or  rather  chambers,  which  they  do  after  the 
first  season,  their  cousins,  the  nuthatches,  chicka- 
dees, and  brown  creepers,  fall  heir  to  them.  These 
birds,  especially  the  creepers  and  nuthatches,  have 
many  of  the  habits  of  the  Picidce,  but  lack  their 
powers  of  bill,  and  so  are  unable  to  excavate  a  nest 
for  themselves.  Their  habitation,  therefore,  is  al- 
ways second-hand.  But  each  species  carries  in  some 
soft  material  of  various  kinds,  or,  in  other  words, 
furnishes  the  tenement  to  its  liking.  The  chicka- 
dee arranges  in  the  bottom  of  the  cavity  a  little 

1  A  recent  English  writer  upon  this  subject  presents  an  array 
of  facts  and  considerations  that  do  not  support  this  view.  He 
says  that,  with  very  few  exceptions,  it  is  the  rule  that,  when^both 
sexes  are  of  strikingly  gay  and  conspicuous  colors,  the  nest  is  such 
as  to  conceal  the  sitting  bird  ;  while,  whenever  there  is  a  striking 
contrast  of  colors,  the  male  being  gay  and  conspicuous,  the  female 
dull  and  obscure,  the  nest  is  open  and  the  sitting  bird  exposed  to 
view.  The  exceptions  to  this  rule  among  European  birds  appear 
to  be  very  few.  Among  our  own  birds,  the  cuckoos  and  blue  jays 
build  open  nests,  without  presenting  any  noticeable  difference  in 
the  coloring  of  the  two  sexes.  The  same  is  true  of  the  pewees, 
the  kingbird,  and  the  sparrows,  while  the  common  bluebird,  the 
oriole,  and  orchard  starling  afford  examples  the  other  way. 

128 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

mat  of  a  light  felt-like  substance,  which  looks  as  if 
it  came  from  the  hatter's,  but  which  is  probably 
the  work  of  numerous  worms  or  caterpillars.  On 
this  soft  lining  the  female  deposits  six  speckled 


I  recently  discovered  one  of  these  nests  in  a  most 
interesting  situation.  The  tree  containing  it,  a 
variety  of  the  wild  cherry,  stood  upon  the  brink  of 
the  bald  summit  of  a  high  mountain.  Gray,  time- 
worn  rocks  lay  piled  loosely  about,  or  overtoppled 
the  just  visible  byways  of  the  red  fox.  The  trees 
had  a  half-scared  look,  and  that  indescribable  wild- 
ness  which  lurks  about  the  tops  of  all  remote  moun- 
tains possessed  the  place.  Standing  there,  I  looked 
down  upon  the  back  of  the  red-tailed  hawk  as  he 
flew  out  over  the  earth  beneath  me.  Following 
him,  my  eye  also  took  in  farms  and  settlements  and 
villages  and  other  mountain  ranges  that  grew  blue 
in  the  distance. 

The  parent  birds  attracted  my  attention  by  ap- 
pearing with  food  in  their  beaks,  and  by  seeming 
much  put  out.  Yet  so  wary  were  they  of  revealing 
the  locality  of  their  brood,  or  even  of  the  precise 
tree  that  held  them,  that  I  lurked  around  over  an 
hour  without  gaining  a  point  on  them.  Finally  a 
bright  and  curious  boy  who  accompanied  me  secreted 
himself  under  a  low,  projecting  rock  close  to  the 
tree  in  which  we  supposed  the  nest  to  be,  while  I 
moved  off  around  the  mountain-side.  It  was  not 
129 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

long  before  the  youth  had  their  secret.  The  tree, 
which  was  low  and  wide-branching,  and  overrun 
with  lichens,  appeared  at  a  cursory  glance  to  con- 
tain not  one  dry  or  decayed  limb.  Yet  there  was 
one  a  few  feet  long,  in  which,  when  my  eyes  were 
piloted  thither,  I  detected  a  small  round  orifice. 

As  my  weight  began  to  shake  the  branches,  the 
consternation  of  both  old  and  young  was  great. 
The  stump  of  a  limb  that  held  the  nest  was  about 
three  inches  thick,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  tunnel 
was  excavated  quite  to  the  bark.  With  my  thumb 
I  broke  in  the  thin  wall,  and  the  young,  which 
were  full-fledged,  looked  out  upon  the  world  for  the 
first  time.  Presently  one  of  them,  with  a  signifi- 
cant chirp,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  It  is  time  we  were 
out  of  this,"  began  to  climb  up  toward  the  proper 
entrance.  Placing  himself  in  the  hole,  he  looked 
around  without  manifesting  any  surprise  at  the 
grand  scene  that  lay  spread  out  before  him.  He 
was  taking  his  bearings,  and  determining  how  far  he 
could  trust  the  power  of  his  untried  wings  to  take 
him  out  of  harm's  way.  After  a  moment's  pause, 
with  a  loud  chirrup,  he  launched  out  and  made 
tolerable  headway.  The  others  rapidly  followed. 
Each  one,  as  it  started  upward,  from  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, contemptuously  saluted  the  abandoned  nest 
with  its  excrement. 

Though  generally  regular  in  their  habits  and 
instincts,  yet  the  birds  sometimes  seem  as  whimsi- 
130 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

cal  and  capricious  as  superior  beings.  One  is  not 
safe,  for  instance,  in  making  any  absolute  assertion 
as  to  their  place  or  mode  of  building.  Ground- 
builders  often  get  up  into  a  bush,  and  tree-builders 
sometimes  get  upon  the  ground  or  into  a  tussock 
of  grass.  The  song  sparrow,  which  is  a  ground 
builder,  has  been  known  to  build  in  the  knothole 
of  a  fence  rail ;  and  a  chimney  swallow  once  got 
tired  of  soot  and  smoke,  and  fastened  its  nest  on  a 
rafter  in  a  hay  barn.  A  friend  tells  me  of  a  pair 
of  barn  swallows  which,  taking  a  fanciful  turn, 
saddled  their  nest  in  the  loop  of  a  rope  that  was 
pendent  from  a  peg  in  the  peak,  and  liked  it  so 
well  that  they  repeated  the  experiment  next  year. 
I  have  known  the  social  sparrow,  or  "  hairbird,"  to 
build  under  a  shed,  in  a  tuft  of  hay  that  hung 
down,  through  the  loose  flooring,  from  the  mow 
above.  It  usually  contents  itself  with  half  a  dozen 
stalks  of  dry  grass  and  a  few  long  hairs  from  a  cow's 
tail  loosely  arranged  on  the  branch  of  an  apple-tree. 
The  rough-winged  swallow  builds  in  the  wall  and 
in  old  stone-heaps,  and  I  have  seen  the  robin  build 
in  similar  localities.  Others  have  found  its  nest  in 
old,  abandoned  wells.  The  house  wren  will  build 
in  anything  that  has  an  accessible  cavity,  from  an 
old  boot  to  a  bombshell.  A  pair  of  them  once  per- 
sisted in  building  their  nest  in  the  top  of  a  certain 
pump-tree,  getting  in  through  the  opening  above 
the  handle.  The  pump  being  in  daily  use,  the  nest 
131 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

was  destroyed  more  than  a  score  of  times.  This 
jealous  little  wretch  has  the  wise  forethought,  when 
the  box  in  which  he  builds  contains  two  compart- 
ments, to  fill  up  one  of  them,  so  as  to  avoid  the 
risk  of  troublesome  neighbors. 

The  less  skillful  builders  sometimes  depart  from 
their  usual  habit,  and  take  up  with  the  abandoned 
nest  of  some  other  species.  The  blue  jay  now  and 
then  lays  in  an  old  crow's  nest  or  cuckoo's  nest. 
The  crow  blackbird,  seized  with  a  fit  of  indolence, 
drops  its  eggs  in  the  cavity  of  a  decayed  branch. 
I  heard  of  a  cuckoo  that  dispossessed  a  robin  of  its 
nest ;  of  another  that  set  a  blue  jay  adrift.  Large, 
loose  structures,  like  the  nests  of  the  osprey  and 
certain  of  the  herons,  have  been  found  with  half 
a  dozen  nests  of  the  blackbirds  set  in  the  outer 
edges,  like  so  many  parasites,  or,  as  Audubon  says, 
like  the  retainers  about  the  rude  court  of  a  feudal 
baron. 

The  same  birds  breeding  in  a  southern  climate 
construct  far  less  elaborate  nests  than  when  breed- 
ing in  a  northern  climate.  Certain  species  of  water- 
fowl, that  abandon  their  eggs  to  the  sand  and  the 
sun  in  the  warmer  zones,  build  a  nest  and  sit  in  the 
usual  way  in  Labrador.  In  Georgia,  the  Balti- 
more oriole  places  its  nest  upon  the  north  side  of 
the  tree;  in  the  Middle  and  Eastern  States,  it  fixes 
it  upon  the  south  or  east  side,  and  makes  it  much 
thicker  and  warmer.  I  have  seen  one  from  the 
132 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

South  that  had  some  kind  of  coarse  reed  or  sedge 
woven  into  it,  giving  it  an  open-work  appearance, 
like  a  basket. 

Very  few  species  use  the  same  material  uniformly. 
I  have  seen  the  nest  of  the  robin  quite  destitute  of 
mud.  In  one  instance  it  was  composed  mainly  of 
long  black  horse-hairs,  arranged  in  a  circular  man- 
ner, with  a  lining  of  fine  yellow  grass ;  the  whole 
presenting  quite  a  novel  appearance.  In  another 
case  the  nest  was  chiefly  constructed  of  a  species  of 
rock  moss. 

The  nest  for  the  second  brood  during  the  same 
season  is  often  a  mere  makeshift.  The  haste  of 
the  female  to  deposit  her  eggs  as  the  season  advances 
seems  very  great,  and  the  structure  is  apt  to  be 
prematurely  finished.  I  was  recently  reminded  of 
this  fact  by  happening,  about  the  last  of  July,  to 
meet  with  several  nests  of  the  wood  or  bush  spar- 
row in  a  remote  blackberry  field.  The  nests  with 
eggs  were  far  less  elaborate  and  compact  than  the 
earlier  nests,  from  which  the  young  had  flown. 

Day  after  day,  as  I  go  to  a  certain  piece  of  woods, 
I  observe  a  male  indigo-bird  sitting  on  precisely 
the  same  part  of  a  high  branch,  and  singing  in  his 
most  vivacious  style.  As  I  approach  he  ceases  to 
sing,  and,  flirting  his  tail  right  and  left  with  marked 
emphasis,  chirps  sharply.  In  a  low  bush  near  by, 
I  come  upon  the  object  of  his  solicitude,  —  a  thick, 
compact  nest  composed  largely  of  dry  leaves  and 
133 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

fine  grass,  in  which  a  plain  brown  bird  is  sitting 
upon  four  pale  blue  eggs. 

The  wonder  is  that  a  bird  will  leave  the  appar- 
ent security  of  the  treetops  to  place  its  nest  in  the 
way  of  the  many  dangers  that  walk  and  crawl  upon 
the  ground.  There,  far  up  out  of  reach,  sings  the 
bird ;  here,  not  three  feet  from  the  ground,  are  its 
eggs  or  helpless  young.  The  truth  is,  birds  are  the 
greatest  enemies  of  birds,  and  it  is  with  reference 
to  this  fact  that  many  of  the  smaller  species  build. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  proportion  of  birds  breed 
along  highways.  I  have  known  the  ruffed  grouse 
to  come  out  of  a  dense  wood  and  make  its  nest  at 
the  root  of  a  tree  within  ten  paces  of  the  road, 
where,  no  doubt,  hawks  and  crows,  as  well  as 
skunks  and  foxes,  would  be  less  likely  to  find  it 
out.  Traversing  remote  mountain-roads  through 
dense  woods,  I  have  repeatedly  seen  the  veery,  or 
Wilson's  thrush,  sitting  upon  her  nest,  so  near  me 
that  I  could  almost  take  her  from  it  by  stretching 
out  my  hand.  Birds  of  prey  show  none  of  this 
confidence  in  man,  and,  when  locating  their  nests, 
avoid  rather  than  seek  his  haunts. 

In  a  certain  locality  in  the  interior  of  New  York, 
I  know,  every  season,  where  I  am  sure  to  find  a 
nest  or  two  of  the  slate-colored  snowbird.  It  is 
under  the  brink  of  a  low  mossy  bank,  so  near  the 
highway  that  it  could  be  reached  from  a  passing 
vehicle  with  a  whip.  Every  horse  or  wagon  or 
134 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

foot  passenger  disturbs  the  sitting  bird.  She  awaits 
the  near  approach  of  the  sound  of  feet  or  wheels, 
and  then  darts  quickly  across  the  road,  barely  clear- 
ing the  ground,  and  disappears  amid  the  bushes  on 
the  opposite  side. 

In  the  trees  that  line  one  of  the  main  streets  and 
fashionable  drives  leading  out  of  Washington  city 
and  less  than  half  a  mile  from  the  boundary,  I  have 
counted  the  nests  of  five  different  species  at  one 
time,  and  that  without  any  very  close  scrutiny  of 
the  foliage,  while,  in  many  acres  of  woodland  half 
a  mile  off,  I  searched  in  vain  for  a  single  nest. 
Among  the  five,  the  nest  that  interested  me  most 
was  that  of  the  blue  grosbeak.  Here  this  bird, 
which,  according  to  Audubon's  observations  in  Lou- 
isiana, is  shy  and  recluse,  affecting  remote  marshes 
and  the  borders  of  large  ponds  of  stagnant  water, 
had  placed  its  nest  in  the  lowest  twig  of  the  lowest 
branch  of  a  large  sycamore,  immediately  over  a 
great  thoroughfare,  and  so  near  the  ground  that  a 
person  standing  in  a  cart  or  sitting  on  a  horse  could 
have  reached  it  with  his  hand.  The  nest  was  com- 
posed mainly  of  fragments  of  newspaper  and  stalks 
of  grass,  and,  though  so  low,  was  remarkably  well 
concealed  by  one  of  the  peculiar  clusters  of  twigs 
and  leaves  which  characterize  this  tree.  The  nest 
contained  young  when  I  discovered  it,  and,  though 
the  parent  birds  were  much  annoyed  by  my  loiter- 
ing about  beneath  the  tree,  they  paid  little  atten- 
135 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

tion  to  the  stream  of  vehicles  that  was  constantly 
passing.  It  was  a  wonder  to  me  when  the  birds 
could  have  built  it,  for  they  are  much  shyer  when 
building  than  at  other  times.  No  doubt  they 
worked  mostly  in  the  morning,  having  the  early 
hours  all  to  themselves. 

Another  pair  of  blue  grosbeaks  built  in  a  grave- 
yard within  the  city  limits.  The  nest  was  placed 
in  a  low  bush,  and  the  male  continued  to  sing  at 
intervals  till  the  young  were  ready  to  fly.  The 
song  of  this  bird  is  a  rapid,  intricate  warble,  like 
that  of  the  indigo-bird,  though  stronger  and  louder. 
Indeed,  these  two  birds  so  much  resemble  each 
other  in  color,  form,  manner,  voice,  and  general 
habits  that,  were  it  not  for  the  difference  in  size, 
—  the  grosbeak  being  nearly  as  large  again  as  the 
indigo-bird,  —  it  would  be  a  hard  matter  to  tell 
them  apart.  The  females  of  both  species  are  clad 
in  the  same  reddish-brown  suits.  So  are  the  young 
the  first  season. 

Of  course  in  the  deep,  primitive  woods,  also,  are 
nests;  but  how  rarely  we  find  them!  The  simple 
art  of  the  bird  consists  hi  choosing  common,  neu- 
tral-tinted material,  as  moss,  dry  leaves,  twigs,  and 
various  odds  and  ends,  and  placing  the  structure  on 
a  convenient  branch,  where  it  blends  in  color  with 
its  surroundings;  but  how  consummate  is  this  art, 
and  how  skillfully  is  the  nest  concealed !  We  occa- 
sionally light  upon  it,  but  who,  unaided  by  the 
136 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

movements  of  the  bird,  could  find  it  out  ?  During 
the  present  season  I  went  to  the  woods  nearly  every 
day  for  a  fortnight  without  making  any  discoveries 
of  this  kind,  till  one  day,  paying  them  a  farewell 
visit,  I  chanced  to  come  upon  several  nests.  A 
black  and  white  creeping  warbler  suddenly  became 
much  alarmed  as  I  approached  a  crumbling  old 
stump  in  a  dense  part  of  the  forest.  He  alighted 
upon  it,  chirped  sharply,  ran  up  and  down  its 
sides,  and  finally  left  it  with  much  reluctance. 
The  nest,  which  contained  three  young  birds  nearly 
fledged,  was  placed  upon  the  ground,  at  the  foot  of 
the  stump,  and  in  such  a  position  that  the  color 
of  the  young  harmonized  perfectly  with  the  bits 
of  bark,  sticks,  etc.,  lying  about.  My  eye  rested 
upon  them  for  the  second  time  before  I  made  them 
out.  They  hugged  the  nest  very  closely,  but  as  I 
put  down  my  hand  they  all  scampered  off  with 
loud  cries  for  help,  which  caused  the  parent  birds 
to  place  themselves  almost  within  my  reach.  The 
nest  was  merely  a  little  dry  grass  arranged  in  a 
thick  bed  of  dry  leaves. 

This  was  amid  a  thick  undergrowth.  Moving  on 
into  a  passage  of  large  stately  hemlocks,  with  only 
here  and  there  a  small  beech  or  maple  rising  up 
into  the  perennial  twilight,  I  paused  to  make  out 
a  note  which  was  entirely  new  to  me.  It  is  still 
in  my  ear.  Though  unmistakably  a  bird  note,  it 
yet  suggested  the  bleating  of  a  tiny  lambkin. 
137 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

Presently  the  birds  appeared,  —  a  pair  of  the  soli- 
tary vireo.  They  came  flitting  from  point  to  point, 
alighting  only  for  a  moment  at  a  time,  the  male 
silent,  but  the  female  uttering  this  strange,  tender 
note.  It  was  a  rendering  into  some  new  sylvan 
dialect  of  the  human  sentiment  of  maidenly  love. 
It  was  really  pathetic  in  its  sweetness  and  childlike 
confidence  and  joy.  I  soon  discovered  that  the 
pair  were  building  a  nest  upon  a  low  branch  a  few 
yards  from  me.  The  male  flew  cautiously  to  the 
spot  and  adjusted  something,  and  the  twain  moved 
on,  the  female  calling  to  her  mate  at  intervals, 
love-e,  love-e,  with  a  cadence  and  tenderness  in  the 
tone  that  rang  in  the  ear  long  afterward.  The  nest 
was  suspended  to  the  fork  of  a  small  branch,  as  is 
usual  with  the  vireos,  plentifully  lined  with  lichens, 
and  bound  and  rebound  with  masses  of  coarse  spi- 
der-webs. There  was  no  attempt  at  concealment 
except  in  the  neutral  tints,  which  made  it  look  like 
a  natural  growth  of  the  dim,  gray  woods. 

Continuing  my  random  walk,  I  next  paused  in  a 
low  part  of  the  woods,  where  the  larger  trees  began 
to  give  place  to  a  thick  second-growth  that  covered 
an  old  Barkpeeling.  I  was  standing  by  a  large 
maple,  when  a  small  bird  darted  quickly  away  from 
it,  as  if  it  might  have  come  out  of  a  hole  near  its 
base.  As  the  bird  paused  a  few  yards  from  me, 
and  began  to  chirp  uneasily,  my  curiosity  was  at 
once  excited.  When  I  saw  it  was  the  female  mourn- 
138 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

ing  ground  warbler,  and  remembered  that  the 
nest  of  this  bird  had  not  yet  been  seen  by  any 
naturalist,  —  that  not  even  Dr.  Brewer  had  ever 
seen  the  eggs,  —  I  felt  that  here  was  something 
worth  looking  for.  So  I  carefully  began  the  search, 
exploring  inch  by  inch  the  ground,  the  base  and 
roots  of  the  tree,  and  the  various  shrubby  growths 
about  it,  till,  finding  nothing  and  fearing  I  might 
really  put  my  foot  in  it,  I  bethought  me  to  with- 
draw to  a  distance  and  after  some  delay  return 
again,  and,  thus  forewarned,  note  the  exact  point 
from  which  the  bird  flew.  This  I  did,  and,  re- 
turning, had  little  difficulty  in  discovering  the  nest. 
It  was  placed  but  a  few  feet  from  the  maple-tree, 
in  a  bunch  of  ferns,  and  about  six  inches  from  the 
ground.  It  was  quite  a  massive  nest,  composed 
entirely  of  the  stalks  and  leaves  of  dry  grass,  with 
an  inner  lining  of  fine,  dark  brown  roots.  The  eggs, 
three  in  number,  were  of  light  flesh-color,  uni- 
formly specked  with  fine  brown  specks.  The  cavity 
of  the  nest  was  so  deep  that  the  back  of  the  sitting 
bird  sank  below  the  edge. 

In  the  top  of  a  tall  tree,  a  short  distance  farther 
on,  I  saw  the  nest  of  the  red -tailed  hawk,  — a  large 
mass  of  twigs  and  dry  sticks.  The  young  had 
flown,  but  still  lingered  in  the  vicinity,  and,  as  I 
approached,  the  mother  bird  flew  about  over  me, 
squealing  in  a  very  angry,  savage  manner.  Tufts 
of  the  hair  and  other  indigestible  material  of  the 
139 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

common  meadow  mouse  lay  around  on  the  ground 
beneath  the  nest. 

As  I  was  about  leaving  the  woods,  my  hat  almost 
brushed  the  nest  of  the  red-eyed  vireo,  which  hung 
basket-like  on  the  end  of  a  low,  drooping  branch 
of  the  beech.  I  should  never  have  seen  it  had 
the  bird  kept  her  place.  It  contained  three  eggs  of 
the  bird's  own,  and  one  of  the  cow  bunting.  The 
strange  egg  was  only  just  perceptibly  larger  than 
the  others,  yet  three  days  after,  when  I  looked 
into  the  nest  again  and  found  all  but  one  egg 
hatched,  the  young  interloper  was  at  least  four  times 
as  large  as  either  of  the  others,  and  with  such  a 
superabundance  of  bowels  as  to  almost  smother  his 
bedfellows  beneath  them.  That  the  intruder  should 
fare  the  same  as  the  rightful  occupants,  and  thrive 
with  them,  was  more  than  ordinary  potluck;  but 
that  it  alone  should  thrive,  devouring,  as  it  were,  all 
the  rest,  is  one  of  those  freaks  of  Nature  in  which 
she  would  seem  to  discourage  the  homely  virtues  of 
prudence  and  honesty.  Weeds  and  parasites  have 
the  odds  greatly  against  them,  yet  they  wage  a  very 
successful  war  nevertheless. 

The  woods  hold  not  such  another  gem  as  the  nest 
of  the  hummingbird.  The  finding  of  one  is  an  event 
to  date  from.  It  is  the  next  best  thing  to  finding 
an  eagle's  nest.  I  have  met  with  but  two,  both  by 
chance.  One  was  placed  on  the  horizontal  branch 
of  a  chestnut-tree,  with  a  solitary  green  leaf,  form- 
140 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

ing  a  complete  canopy,  about  an  inch  and  a  half 
above  it.  The  repeated  spiteful  dartings  of  the 
bird  past  my  ears,  as  I  stood  under  the  tree,  caused 
me  to  suspect  that  I  was  intruding  upon  some  one's 
privacy;  and,  following  it  with  my  eye,  I  soon  saw 
the  nest,  which  was  in  process  of  construction. 
Adopting  my  usual  tactics  of  secreting  myself  near 
by,  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  tiny  artist 
at  work.  It  was  the  female,  unassisted  by  her  mate. 
At  intervals  of  two  or  three  minutes  she  would  ap- 
pear with  a  small  tuft  of  some  cottony  substance 
in  her  beak,  dart  a  few  times  through  and  around 
the  tree,  and  alighting  quickly  in  the  nest,  arrange 
the  material  she  had  brought,  using  her  breast  as  a 
model. 

The  other  nest  I  discovered  in  a  dense  forest  on 
the  side  of  a  mountain.  The  sitting  bird  was  dis- 
turbed as  I  passed  beneath  her.  The  whirring  of 
her  wings  arrested  my  attention,  when,  after  a  short 
pause,  I  had  the  good  luck  to  see,  through  an  open- 
ing in  the  leaves,  the  bird  return  to  her  nest,  which 
appeared  like  a  mere  wart  or  excrescence  on  a 
small  branch.  The  hummingbird,  unlike  all  others, 
does  not  alight  upon  the  nest,  but  flies  into  it.  She 
enters  it  as  quick  as  a  flash,  but  as  light  as  any 
feather.  Two  eggs  are  the  complement.  They  are 
perfectly  white,  and  so  frail  that  only  a  woman's 
fingers  may  touch  them.  Incubation  lasts  about 
ten  days.  In  a  week  the  young  have  flown. 
141 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

The  only  nest  like  the  hummingbird's,  and  com- 
parable to  it  in  neatness  and  symmetry,  is  that  of 
the  blue-gray  gnatcatcher.  This  is  often  saddled 
upon  the  limb  in  the  same  manner,  though  it  is 
generally  more  or  less  pendent;  it  is  deep  and  soft, 
composed  mostly  of  some  vegetable  down  covered 
all  over  with  delicate  tree-lichens,  and,  except  that 
it  is  much  larger,  appears  almost  identical  with  the 
nest  of  the  hummingbird. 

But  the  nest  of  nests,  the  ideal  nest,  after  we 
have  left  the  deep  woods,  is  unquestionably  that  of 
the  Baltimore  oriole.  It  is  the  only  perfectly  pensile 
nest  we  have.  The  nest  of  the  orchard  oriole  is  in- 
deed mainly  so,  but  this  bird  generally  builds  lower 
and  shallower,  more  after  the  manner  of  the  vireos. 

The  Baltimore  oriole  loves  to  attach  its  nest  to 
the  swaying  branches  of  the  tallest  elms,  making  no 
attempt  at  concealment,  but  satisfied  if  the  position 
be  high  and  the  branch  pendent.  This  nest  would 
seem  to  cost  more  time  and  skill  than  any  other 
bird  structure.  A  peculiar  flax-like  substance  seems 
to  be  always  sought  after  and  always  found.  The 
nest  when  completed  assumes  the  form  of  a  large, 
suspended  gourd.  The  walls  are  thin  but  firm, 
and  proof  against  the  most  driving  rain.  The 
mouth  is  hemmed  or  overhanded  with  horse-hair, 
and  the  sides  are  usually  sewed  through  and  through 
with  the  same. 

Not  particular  as  to  the  matter  of  secrecy,  the 
142 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

bird  is  not  particular  as  to  material,  so  that  it  be  of 
the  nature  of  strings  or  threads.  A  lady  friend 
once  told  me  that,  while  working  by  an  open  win- 
dow, one  of  these  birds  approached  during  her 
momentary  absence,  and,  seizing  a  skein  of  some 
kind  of  thread  or  yarn,  made  off  with  it  to  its  half- 
finished  nest.  But  the  perverse  yarn  caught  fast 
in  the  branches,  and,  in  the  bird's  effort  to  extri- 
cate it,  got  hopelessly  tangled.  She  tugged  away 
at  it  all  day,  but  was  finally  obliged  to  content  her- 
self with  a  few  detached  portions.  The  fluttering 
strings  were  an  eyesore  to  her  ever  after,  and,  pass- 
ing and  repassing,  she  would  give  them  a  spiteful 
jerk,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  There  is  that  confounded 
yarn  that  gave  me  so  much  trouble." 

From  Pennsylvania,  Vincent  Barnard  (to  whom 
I  am  indebted  for  other  curious  facts)  sent  me  this 
interesting  story  of  an  oriole.  He  says  a  friend  of 
his  curious  in  such  things,  on  observing  the  bird 
beginning  to  build,  hung  out  near  the  prospective 
nest  skeins  of  many-colored  zephyr  yarn,  which  the 
eager  artist  readily  appropriated.  He  managed  it 
so  that  the  bird  used  nearly  equal  quantities  of 
various  high,  bright  colors.  The  nest  was  made 
unusually  deep  and  capacious,  and  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned if  such  a  thing  of  beauty  was  ever  before 
woven  by  the  cunning  of  a  bird. 

Nuttall,  by  far  the  most  genial  of  American  orni- 
thologists, relates  the  following:  — 
143 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

"A  female  (oriole),  which  I  observed  attentively, 
carried  off  to  her  nest  a  piece  of  lamp-wick  ten  or 
twelve  feet  long.  This  long  string  and  many  other 
shorter  ones  were  left  hanging  out  for  about  a  week 
before  both  the  ends  were  wattled  into  the  sides  of 
the  nest.  Some  other  little  birds,  making  use  of 
similar  materials,  at  times  twitched  these  flowing 
ends,  and  generally  brought  out  the  busy  Baltimore 
from  her  occupation  in  great  anger. 

"I  may  perhaps  claim  indulgence  for  adding  a 
little  more  of  the  biography  of  this  particular  bird, 
as  a  representative  also  of  the  instincts  of  her  race. 
She  completed  the  nest  in  about  a  week's  time, 
without  any  aid  from  her  mate,  who  indeed  ap- 
peared but  seldom  in  her  company  and  was  now 
become  nearly  silent.  For  fibrous  materials  she 
broke,  hackled,  and  gathered  the  flax  of  the  as- 
clepias  and  hibiscus  stalks,  tearing  off  long  strings 
and  flying  with  them  to  the  scene  of  her  labors. 
She  appeared  very  eager  and  hasty  in  her  pursuits, 
and  collected  her  materials  without  fear  or  restraint 
while  three  men  were  working  in  the  neighboring 
walks  and  many  persons  visiting  the  garden.  Her 
courage  and  perseverance  were  indeed  truly  ad- 
mirable. If  watched  too  narrowly,  she  saluted 
with  her  usual  scolding,  tshrr,  tshrr,  tshrr>  seeing  no 
reason,  probably,  why  she  should  be  interrupted  in 
her  indispensable  occupation. 

*'  Though  the  males  were  now  comparatively  silent 
144 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

on  the  arrival  of  their  busy  mates,  I  could  not  help 
observing  this  female  and  a  second,  continually 
vociferating,  apparently  in  strife.  At  last  she  was 
observed  to  attack  this  second  female  very  fiercely, 
who  slyly  intruded  herself  at  times  into  the  same 
tree  where  she  was  building.  These  contests  were 
angry  and  often  repeated.  To  account  for  this  ani- 
mosity, I  now  recollected  that  two  fine  males  had 
been  killed  in  our  vicinity,  and  I  therefore  con- 
cluded the  intruder  to  be  left  without  a  mate;  yet 
she  had  gained  the  affections  of  the  consort  of  the 
busy  female,  and  thus  the  cause  of  their  jealous 
quarrel  became  apparent.  Having  obtained  the  con- 
fidence of  her  faithless  paramour,  the  second  female 
began  preparing  to  weave  a  nest  in  an  adjoining 
elm  by  tying  together  certain  pendent  twigs  as  a 
foundation.  The  male  now  associated  chiefly  with 
the  intruder,  whom  he  even  assisted  in  her  labor, 
yet  did  not  wholly  forget  his  first  partner,  who  called 
on  him  one  evening  in  a  low,  affectionate  tone, 
which  was  answered  in  the  same  strain.  While 
they  were  thus  engaged  in  friendly  whispers,  sud- 
denly appeared  the  rival,  and  a  violent  rencontre 
ensued,  so  that  one  of  the  females  appeared  to  be 
greatly  agitated,  and  fluttered  with  spreading  wings 
as  if  considerably  hurt.  The  male,  though  prudently 
neutral  in  the  contest,  showed  his  culpable  partial- 
ity by  flying  off  with  his  paramour,  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening  left  the  tree  to  his  pugnacious  con- 
145 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

sort.  Cares  of  another  kind,  more  imperious  and 
tender,  at  length  reconciled,  or  at  least  terminated, 
these  disputes  with  the  jealous  females ;  and  by  the 
aid  of  the  neighboring  bachelors,  who  are  never 
wanting  among  these  and  other  birds,  peace  was 
at  length  completely  restored  by  the  restitution  of 
the  quiet  and  happy  condition  of  monogamy." 

Let  me  not  forget  to  mention  the  nest  under  the 
mountain  ledge,  the  nest  of  the  common  pewee,  — 
a  modest  mossy  structure,  with  four  pearl-white 
eggs,  —  looking  out  upon  some  wild  scene  and  over- 
hung by  beetling  crags.  After  all  has  been  said 
about  the  elaborate,  high-hung  structures,  few  nests 
perhaps  awaken  more  pleasant  emotions  in  the  mind 
of  the  beholder  than  this  of  the  pewee,  —  the  gray, 
silent  rocks,  with  caverns  and  dens  where  the  fox 
and  the  wolf  lurk,  and  just  out  of  their  reach,  in 
a  little  niche,  as  if  it  grew  there,  the  mossy  tene- 
ment! 

Nearly  every  high  projecting  rock  in  my  range 
has  one  of  these  nests.  Following  a  trout  stream 
up  a  wild  mountain  gorge,  not  long  since,  I  counted 
five  in  the  distance  of  a  mile,  all  within  easy  reach, 
but  safe  from  the  minks  and  the  skunks,  and  well 
housed  from  the  storms.  In  my  native  town  I 
know  a  pine  and  oak  clad  hill,  round-topped,  with 
a  bold,  precipitous  front  extending  halfway  around 
it.  Near  the  top,  and  along  this  front  or  side, 
there  crops  out  a  ledge  of  rocks  unusually  high  and 
146 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

cavernous.  One  immense  layer  projects  many  feet, 
allowing  a  person  or  many  persons,  standing  upright, 
to  move  freely  beneath  it.  There  is  a  delicious 
spring  of  water  there,  and  plenty  of  wild,  cool  air. 
The  floor  is  of  loose  stone,  now  trod  by  sheep  and 
foxes,  once  by  the  Indian  and  the  wolf.  How  I 
have  delighted  from  boyhood  to  spend  a  summer 
day  in  this  retreat,  or  take  refuge  there  from  a  sud- 
den shower!  Always  the  freshness  and  coolness, 
and  always  the  delicate  mossy  nest  of  the  phrebe- 
bird!  The  bird  keeps  her  place  till  you  are  within 
a  few  feet  of  her,  when  she  flits  to  a  near  branch, 
and,  with  many  oscillations  of  her  tail,  observes  you 
anxiously.  Since  the  country  has  become  settled, 
this  pewee  has  fallen  into  the  strange  practice  of 
occasionally  placing  its  nest  under  a  bridge,  hay- 
shed,  or  other  artificial  structure,  where  it  is  sub- 
ject to  all  kinds  of  interruptions  and  annoyances. 
When  placed  thus,  the  nest  is  larger  and  coarser. 
I  know  a  hay-loft  beneath  which  a  pair  has  regu- 
larly placed  its  nest  for  several  successive  seasons. 
Arranged  along  on  a  single  pole,  which  sags  down 
a  few  inches  from  the  flooring  it  was  intended  to 
help  support,  are  three  of  these  structures,  marking 
the  number  of  years  the  birds  have  nested  there. 
The  foundation  is  of  mud  with  a  superstructure  of 
moss,  elaborately  lined  with  hair  and  feathers. 
Nothing  can  be  more  perfect  and  exquisite  than  the 
interior  of  one  of  these  nests,  yet  a  new  one  is  built 
147 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

every  season.  Three  broods,  however,  are  frequently 
reared  in  it. 

The  pewees,  as  a  class,  are  the  best  architects 
we  have.  The  kingbird  builds  a  nest  altogether 
admirable,  using  various  soft  cotton  and  woolen  sub- 
stances, and  sparing  neither  time  nor  material  to 
make  it  substantial  and  warm.  The  green-crested 
pewee  builds  its  nest  in  many  instances  wholly  of 
the  blossoms  of  the  white  oak.  The  wood  pewee 
builds  a  neat,  compact,  socket-shaped  nest  of  moss 
and  lichens  on  a  horizontal  branch.  There  is  never 
a  loose  end  or  shred  about  it.  The  sitting  bird  is 
largely  visible  above  the  rim.  She  moves  her  head 
freely  about  and  seems  entirely  at  her  ease,  —  a  cir- 
cumstance which  I  have  never  observed  in  any  other 
species.  The  nest  of  the  great-crested  flycatcher  is 
seldom  free  from  snake  skins,  three  or  four  being 
sometimes  woven  into  it. 

About  the  thinnest,  shallowest  nest,  for  its  situa- 
tion, that  can  be  found  is  that  of  the  turtle-dove. 
A  few  sticks  and  straws  are  carelessly  thrown  to- 
gether, hardly  sufficient  to  prevent  the  eggs  from 
falling  through  or  rolling  off.  The  nest  of  the  pas- 
senger pigeon  is  equally  hasty  and  insufficient,  and 
the  squabs  often  fall  to  the  ground  and  perish. 
The  other  extreme  among  our  common  birds  is  fur- 
nished by  the  ferruginous  thrush,  which  collects 
together  a  mass  of  material  that  would  fill  a  half- 
bushel  measure;  or  by  the  fish  hawk,  which  adds 
148 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

to  and  repairs  its  nest  year  after  year,  till  the  whole 
would  make  a  cart-load. 

One  of  the  rarest  of  nests  is  that  of  the  eagle,  be- 
cause the  eagle  is  one  of  the  rarest  of  birds.  Indeed, 
so  seldom  is  the  eagle  seen  that  its  presence  always 
seems  accidental.  It  appears  as  if  merely  paus- 
ing on  the  way,  while  bound  for  some  distant 
unknown  region.  One  September,  while  a  youth, 
I  saw  the  ring-tailed  eagle,  the  young  of  the  golden 
eagle,  an  immense,  dusky  bird,  the  sight  of  which 
filled  me  with  awe.  It  lingered  about  the  hills 
for  two  days.  Some  young  cattle,  a  two-year-old 
colt,  and  half  a  dozen  sheep  were  at  pasture  on  a 
high  ridge  that  led  up  to  the  mountain,  and  in 
plain  view  of  the  house.  On  the  second  day  this 
dusky  monarch  was  seen  flying  about  above  them. 
Presently  he  began  to  hover  over  them,  after  the 
manner  of  a  hawk  watching  for  mice.  He  then 
with  extended  legs  let  himself  slowly  down  upon 
them,  actually  grappling  the  backs  of  the  young 
cattle,  and  frightening  the  creatures  so  that  they 
rushed  about  the  field  in  great  consternation;  and 
finally,  as  he  grew  bolder  and  more  frequent  in  his 
descents,  the  whole  herd  broke  over  the  fence  and 
came  tearing  down  to  the  house  "like  mad."  It 
did  not  seem  to  be  an  assault  with  intent  to  kill,  but 
was  perhaps  a  stratagem  resorted  to  in  order  to  sep- 
arate the  herd  and  expose  the  lambs,  which  hugged 
the  cattle  very  closely.  When  he  occasionally 
149 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

alighted  upon  the  oaks  that  stood  near,  the  branch 
could  be  seen  to  sway  and  bend  beneath  him. 
Finally,  as  a  rifleman  started  out  in  pursuit  of  him, 
he  launched  into  the  air,  set  his  wings,  and  sailed 
away  southward.  A  few  years  afterward,  in  Jan- 
uary, another  eagle  passed  through  the  same  local- 
ity, alighting  in  a  field  near  some  dead  animal,  but 
tarried  briefly. 

So  much  by  way  of  identification.  The  golden 
eagle  is  common  to  the  northern  parts  of  both  hemi- 
spheres, and  places  its  eyrie  on  high  precipitous 
rocks.  A  pair  built  on  an  inaccessible  shelf  of  rock 
along  the  Hudson  for  eight  successive  years.  A 
squad  of  Revolutionary  soldiers,  also,  as  related  by 
Audubon,  found  a  nest  along  this  river,  and  had  an 
adventure  with  the  bird  that  came  near  costing  one 
of  their  number  his  life.  His  comrades  let  him 
down  by  a  rope  to  secure  the  eggs  or  young,  when 
he  was  attacked  by  the  female  eagle  with  such  fury 
that  he  was  obliged  to  defend  himself  with  his 
knife.  In  doing  so,  by  a  misstroke,  he  nearly  sev- 
ered the  rope  that  held  him,  and  was  drawn  up  by 
a  single  strand  from  his  perilous  position. 

The  bald  eagle,  also,  builds  on  high  rocks,  ac- 
cording to  Audubon,  though  Wilson  describes  the 
nest  of  one  which  he  saw  near  Great  Egg  Harbor,  in 
the  top  of  a  large  yellow  pine.  It  was  a  vast  pile  of 
sticks,  sods,  sedge,  grass,  reeds,  etc.,  five  or  six  feet 
high  by  four  broad,  and  with  little  or  no  concavity. 
150 


BIRDS'-NESTS 

It  had  been  used  for  many  years,  and  he  was  told 
that  the  eagles  made  it  a  sort  of  home  or  lodging- 
place  in  all  seasons. 

The  eagle  in  all  cases  uses  one  nest,  with  more 
or  less  repair,  for  several  years.  Many  of  our  com- 
mon birds  do  the  same.  The  birds  may  be  divided, 
with  respect  to  this  and  kindred  points,  into  five 
general  classes.  First,  those  that  repair  or  appro- 
priate the  last  year's  nest,  as  the  wren,  swallow, 
bluebird,  great-crested  flycatcher,  owls,  eagles,  fish 
hawk,  and  a  few  others.  Secondly,  those  that  build 
anew  each  season,  though  frequently  rearing  more 
than  one  brood  in  the  same  nest.  Of  these  the 
phoebe-bird  is  a  well-known  example.  Thirdly, 
those  that  build  a  new  nest  for  each  brood,  which 
includes  by  far  the  greatest  number  of  species. 
Fourthly,  a  limited  number  that  make  no  nest  of 
their  own,  but  appropriate  the  abandoned  nests 
of  other  birds.  Finally,  those  who  use  no  nest  at 
all,  but  deposit  their  eggs  in  the  sand,  which  is  the 
case  with  a  large  number  of  aquatic  fowls. 

1866. 


VI 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  SOUTHERN 
CATSKILLS 


VI 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  SOUTHERN 
CATSKILLS 

ON  looking  at  the  southern  and  more  distant 
Catskills  from  the  Hudson  River  on  the  east, 
or  on  looking  at  them  from  the  west  from  some 
point  of  vantage  in  Delaware  County,  you  see,  amid 
the  group  of  mountains,  one  that  looks  like  the  back 
and  shoulders  of  a  gigantic  horse.  The  horse  has 
got  his  head  down  grazing;  the  shoulders  are  high, 
and  the  descent  from  them  down  his  neck  very 
steep;  if  he  were  to  lift  up  his  head,  one  sees  that 
it  would  be  carried  far  above  all  other  peaks,  and 
that  the  noble  beast  might  gaze  straight  to  his  peers 
in  the  Adirondacks  or  the  White  Mountains.  But 
the  lowered  head  never  comes  up ;  some  spell  or 
enchantment  keeps  it  down  there  amid  the  mighty 
herd;  and  the  high  round  shoulders  and  the  smooth 
strong  back  of  the  steed  are  alone  visible.  The 
peak  to  which  I  refer  is  Slide  Mountain,  the  high- 
est of  the  Catskills  by  some  two  hundred  feet,  and 
probably  the  most  inaccessible;  certainly  the  hard- 
est to  get  a  view  of,  it  is  hedged  about  so  completely 
by  other  peaks,  —  the  greatest  mountain  of  them 
155 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

all,  and  apparently  the  least  willing  to  be  seen ;  only 
at  a  distance  of  thirty  or  forty  miles  is  it  seen  to 
stand  up  above  all  other  peaks.  It  takes  its  name 
from  a  landslide  which  occurred  many  years  ago 
down  its  steep  northern  side,  or  down  the  neck  of 
the  grazing  steed.  The  mane  of  spruce  and  balsam 
fir  was  stripped  away  for  many  hundred  feet,  leaving 
a  long  gray  streak  visible  from  afar. 

Slide  Mountain  is  the  centre  and  the  chief  of  the 
southern  Catskills.  Streams  flow  from  its  base,  and 
from  the  base  of  its  subordinates,  to  all  points  of 
the  compass,  —  the  Rondout  and  the  Neversink  to 
the  south ;  the  Beaverkill  to  the  west ;  the  Esopus 
to  the  north ;  and  several  lesser  streams  to  the  east. 
With  its  summit  as  the  centre,  a  radius  of  ten  miles 
would  include  within  the  circle  described  but  very 
little  cultivated  land  ;  only  a  few  poor,  wild  farms 
in  some  of  the  numerous  valleys.  The  soil  is  poor, 
a  mixture  of  gravel  and  clay,  and  is  subject  to  slides. 
It  lies  in  the  valleys  in  ridges  and  small  hillocks, 
as  if  dumped  there  from  a  huge  cart.  The  tops  of 
the  southern  Catskills  are  all  capped  with  a  kind 
of  conglomerate,  or  "pudden  stone,"  —  a  rock  of 
cemented  quartz  pebbles  which  underlies  the  coal 
measures.  This  rock  disintegrates  under  the  action 
of  the  elements,  and  the  sand  and  gravel  which 
result  are  carried  into  the  valleys  and  make  up  the 
most  of  the  soil.  From  the  northern  Catskills,  so 
far  as  I  know  them,  this  rock  has  been  swept  clean. 
156 


THE   SOUTHERN    CATSKILLS 

Low  down  in  the  valleys  the  old  red  sandstone  crops 
out,  and,  as  you  go  west  into  Delaware  County,  in 
many  places  it  alone  remains  and  makes  up  most  of 
the  soil,  all  the  superincumbent  rock  having  been 
carried  away. 

Slide  Mountain  had  been  a  summons  and  a  chal- 
lenge to  me  for  many  years.  I  had  fished  every 
stream  that  it  nourished,  and  had  camped  in  the 
wilderness  on  all  sides  of  it,  and  whenever  I  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  its  summit  I  had  promised 
myself  to  set  foot  there  before  another  season  should 
pass.  But  the  seasons  came  and  went,  and  my 
feet  got  no  nimbler,  and  Slide  Mountain  no  lower, 
until  finally,  one  July,  seconded  by  an  energetic 
friend,  we  thought  to  bring  Slide  to  terms  by  ap- 
proaching him  through  the  mountains  on  the  east. 
With  a  farmer's  son  for  guide  we  struck  in  by  way 
of  Weaver  Hollow,  and,  after  a  long  and  desperate 
climb,  contented  ourselves  with  the  Wittenberg,  in- 
stead of  Slide.  The  view  from  the  Wittenberg  is 
in  many  respects  more  striking,  as  you  are  perched 
immediately  above  a  broader  and  more  distant 
sweep  of  country,  and  are  only  about  two  hundred 
feet  lower.  You  are  here  on  the  eastern  brink  of  the 
southern  Catskills,  and  the  earth  falls  away  at  your 
feet  and  curves  down  through  an  immense  stretch 
of  forest  till  it  joins  the  plain  of  Shokan,  and  thence 
sweeps  away  to  the  Hudson  and  beyond.  Slide  is 
southwest  of  you,  six  or  seven  miles  distant,  but 
157 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

is  visible  only  when  you  climb  into  a  treetop.  I 
climbed  and  saluted  him,  and  promised  to  call  next 
time. 

We  passed  the  night  on  the  Wittenberg,  sleeping 
on  the  moss,  between  two  decayed  logs,  with  balsam 
boughs  thrust  into  the  ground  and  meeting  and 
forming  a  canopy  over  us.  In  coming  off  the  moun- 
tain in  the  morning  we  ran  upon  a  huge  porcupine, 
and  I  learned  for  the  first  time  that  the  tail  of  a  por- 
cupine goes  with  a  spring  like  a  trap.  It  seems  to  be 
a  set-lock;  and  you  no  sooner  touch  with  the  weight 
of  a  hair  one  of  the  quills  than  the  tail  leaps  up  in 
a  most  surprising  manner,  and  the  laugh  is  not  on 
your  side.  The  beast  cantered  along  the  path  in  my 
front,  and  I  threw  myself  upon  him,  shielded  by 
my  roll  of  blankets.  He  submitted  quietly  to  the 
indignity,  and  lay  very  still  under  my  blankets,  with 
his  broad  tail  pressed  close  to  the  ground.  This  I 
proceeded  to  investigate,  but  had  not  fairly  made  a 
beginning  when  it  went  off  like  a  trap,  and  my  hand 
and  wrist  were  full  of  quills.  This  caused  me  to  let 
up  on  the  creature,  when  it  lumbered  away  till  it 
tumbled  down  a  precipice.  The  quills  were  quickly 
removed  from  my  hand,  when  we  gave  chase.  When 
we  came  up  to  him,  he  had  wedged  himself  in  be- 
tween the  rocks  so  that  he  presented  only  a  back 
bristling  with  quills,  with  the  tail  lying  in  ambush 
below.  He  had  chosen  his  position  well,  and  seemed 
to  defy  us.  After  amusing  ourselves  by  repeatedly 
158 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

springing  his  tail  and  receiving  the  quills  in  a  rot- 
ten stick,  we  made  a  slip-noose  out  of  a  spruce  root, 
and,  after  much  manoeuvring,  got  it  over  his  head 
and  led  him  forth.  In  what  a  peevish,  injured  tone 
the  creature  did  complain  of  our  unfair  tactics!  He 
protested  and  protested,  and  whimpered  and  scolded 
like  some  infirm  old  man  tormented  by  boys.  His 
game  after  we  led  him  forth  was  to  keep  himself  as 
much  as  possible  in  the  shape  of  a  ball,  but  with  two 
sticks  and  the  cord  we  finally  threw  him  over  on  his 
back  and  exposed  his  quill-less  and  vulnerable  under 
side,  when  he  fairly  surrendered  and  seemed  to  say, 
"  Now  you  may  do  with  me  as  you  like."  His  great 
chisel-like  teeth,  which  are  quite  as  formidable  as 
those  of  the  woodchuck,  he  does  not  appear  to  use 
at  all  in  his  defense,  but  relies  entirely  upon  his 
quills,  and  when  those  fail  him,  he  is  done  for. 

After  amusing  ourselves  with  him  awhile  longer, 
we  released  him  and  went  on  our  way.  The  trail 
to  which  we  had  committed  ourselves  led  us  down 
into  Woodland  Valley,  a  retreat  which  so  took  my 
eye  by  its  fine  trout  brook,  its  superb  mountain 
scenery,  and  its  sweet  seclusion,  that  I  marked  it 
for  my  own,  and  promised  myself  a  return  to  it  at  no 
distant  day.  This  promise  I  kept,  and  pitched  my 
tent  there  twice  during  that  season.  Both  occasions 
were  a  sort  of  laying  siege  to  Slide,  but  we  only  skir- 
mished with  him  at  a  distance;  the  actual  assault 
was  not  undertaken.  But  the  following  year,  rein- 
159 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

forced  by  two  other  brave  climbers,  we  determined 
upon  the  assault,  and  upon  making  it  from  this  the 
most  difficult  side.  The  regular  way  is  by  Big  In- 
gin  Valley,  where  the  climb  is  comparatively  easy, 
and  where  it  is  often  made  by  women.  But  from 
Woodland  Valley  only  men  may  essay  the  ascent. 
Larkins  is  the  upper  inhabitant,  and  from  our  camp- 
ing-ground near  his  clearing  we  set  out  early  one 
June  morning. 

One  would  think  nothing  could  be  easier  to  find 
than  a  big  mountain,  especially  when  one  is  en- 
camped upon  a  stream  which  he  knows  springs  out 
of  its  very  loins.  But  for  some  reason  or  other  we 
had  got  an  idea  that  Slide  Mountain  was  a  very  slip- 
pery customer  and  must  be  approached  cautiously. 
We  had  tried  from  several  points  in  the  valley  to 
get  a  view  of  it,  but  were  not  quite  sure  we  had  seen 
its  very  head.  When  on  the  Wittenberg,  a  neigh- 
boring peak,  the  year  before,  I  had  caught  a  brief 
glimpse  of  it  only  by  climbing  a  dead  tree  and  cran- 
ing up  for  a  moment  from  its  topmost  branch.  It 
would  seem  as  if  the  mountain  had  taken  every 
precaution  to  shut  itself  off  from  a  near  view.  It 
was  a  shy  mountain,  and  we  were  about  to  stalk  it 
through  six  or  seven  miles  of  primitive  woods,  and 
we  seemed  to  have  some  unreasonable  fear  that  it 
might  elude  us.  We  had  been  told  of  parties  who 
had  essayed  the  ascent  from  this  side,  and  had  re- 
turned baffled  and  bewildered.  In  a  tangle  of  prim- 
160 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

itive  woods,  the  very  bigness  of  the  mountain  baffles 
one.  It  is  all  mountain;  whichever  way  you  turn 
—  and  one  turns  sometimes  in  such  cases  before  he 
knows  it  —  the  foot  finds  a  steep  and  rugged  ascent. 
The  eye  is  of  little  service ;  one  must  be  sure  of 
his  bearings  and  push  boldly  on  and  up.  One  is 
not  unlike  a  flea  upon  a  great  shaggy  beast,  looking 
for  the  animal's  head;  or  even  like  a  much  smaller 
and  much  less  nimble  creature,  —  he  may  waste  his 
time  and  steps,  and  think  he  has  reached  the  head 
when  he  is  only  upon  the  rump.  Hence  I  ques- 
tioned our  host,  who  had  several  times  made  the 
ascent,  closely.  Larkins  laid  his  old  felt  hat  upon 
the  table,  and,  placing  one  hand  upon  one  side  of  it 
and  the  other  upon  the  other,  said:  "There  Slide 
lies,  between  the  two  forks  of  the  stream,  just  as  my 
hat  lies  between  my  two  hands.  David  will  go  with 
you  to  the  forks,  and  then  you  will  push  right  on  up." 
But  Larkins  was  not  right,  though  he  had  traversed 
all  those  mountains  many  times  over.  The  peak  we 
were  about  to  set  out  for  did  not  lie  between  the 
forks,  but  exactly  at  the  head  of  one  of  them;  the 
beginnings  of  the  stream  are  in  the  very  path  of  the 
slide,  as  we  afterward  found.  We  broke  camp  early 
in  the  morning,  and  with  our  blankets  strapped  to 
our  backs  and  rations  in  our  pockets  for  two  days, 
set  out  along  an  ancient  and  in  places  an  obliterated 
bark  road  that  followed  and  crossed  and  recrossed 
the  stream.  The  morning  was  bright  and  warm,  but 
161 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

the  wind  was  fitful  and  petulant,  and  I  predicted 
rain.  What  a  forest  solitude  our  obstructed  and 
dilapidated  wood-road  led  us  through !  five  miles  of 
primitive  woods  before  we  came  to  the  forks,  three 
miles  before  we  came  to  the  "  burnt  shanty,"  a  name 
merely,  —  no  shanty  there  now  for  twenty-five  years 
past.  The  ravages  of  the  barkpeelers  were  still  vis- 
ible, now  in  a  space  thickly  strewn  with  the  soft 
and  decayed  trunks  of  hemlock-trees,  and  overgrown 
with  wild  cherry,  then  in  huge  mossy  logs  scattered 
through  the  beech  and  maple  woods.  Some  of  these 
logs  were  so  soft  and  mossy  that  one  could  sit  or 
recline  upon  them  as  upon  a  sofa. 

But  the  prettiest  thing  was  the  stream  soliloquiz- 
ing in  such  musical  tones  there  amid  the  moss-cov- 
ered rocks  and  boulders.  How  clean  it  looked,  what 
purity!  Civilization  corrupts  the  streams  as  it  cor- 
rupts the  Indian;  only  in  such  remote  woods  can 
you  now  see  a  brook  in  all  its  original  freshness  and 
beauty.  Only  the  sea  and  the  mountain  forest  brook 
are  pure;  all  between  is  contaminated  more  or  less 
by  the  work  of  man.  An  ideal  trout  brook  was  this, 
now  hurrying,  now  loitering,  now  deepening  around 
a  great  boulder,  now  gliding  evenly  over  a  pavement 
of  green-gray  stone  and  pebbles ;  no  sediment  or 
stain  of  any  kind,  but  white  and  sparkling  as  snow- 
water, and  nearly  as  cool.  Indeed,  the  water  of  all 
this  Catskill  region  is  the  best  in  the  world.  For  the 
first  few  days,  one  feels  as  if  he  could  almost  live  on 
162 


THE   SOUTHERN    CATSKILLS 

the  water  alone;  he  cannot  drink  enough  of  it.  In 
this  particular  it  is  indeed  the  good  Bible  land,  "  a 
land  of  brooks  of  water,  of  fountains  and  depths  that 
spring  out  of  valleys  and  hills." 

Near  the  forks  we  caught,  or  thought  we  caught, 
through  an  opening,  a  glimpse  of  Slide.  Was  it 
Slide  ?  was  it  the  head,  or  the  rump,  or  the  shoulder 
of  the  shaggy  monster  we  were  in  quest  of  ?  At  the 
forks  there  was  a  bewildering  maze  of  underbrush 
and  great  trees,  and  the  way  did  not  seem  at  all  cer- 
tain; nor  was  David,  who  was  then  at  the  end  of  his 
reckoning,  able  to  reassure  us.  But  in  assaulting  a 
mountain,  as  in  assaulting  a  fort,  boldness  is  the 
watchword.  We  pressed  forward,  following  a  line 
of  blazed  trees  for  nearly  a  mile,  then,  turning  to  the 
left,  began  the  ascent  of  the  mountain.  It  was  steep, 
hard  climbing.  We  saw  numerous  marks  of  both 
bears  and  deer;  but  no  birds,  save  at  long  intervals 
the  winter  wren  flitting  here  and  there,  and  darting 
under  logs  and  rubbish  like  a  mouse.  Occasionally 
its  gushing,  lyrical  song  would  break  the  silence. 
After  we  had  climbed  an  hour  or  two,  the  clouds 
began  to  gather,  and  presently  the  rain  began  to 
comedown.  This  was  discouraging;  but  we  put  our 
backs  up  against  trees  and  rocks,  and  waited  for  the 
shower  to  pass. 

"They  were  wet  with  the  showers  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  embraced  the  rocks  for  want  of  shelter," 
as  they  did  in  Job's  time.  But  the  shower  was 
163 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

light  and  brief,  and  we  were  soon  under  way  again. 
Three  hours  from  the  forks  brought  us  out  on  the 
broad  level  back  of  the  mountain  upon  which  Slide, 
considered  as  an  isolated  peak,  is  reared.  After  a 
time  we  entered  a  dense  growth  of  spruce  which 
covered  a  slight  depression  in  the  table  of  the  moun- 
tain. The  moss  was  deep,  the  ground  spongy,  the 
light  dim,  the  air  hushed.  The  transition  from  the 
open,  leafy  woods  to  this  dim,  silent,  weird  grove 
was  very  marked.  It  was  like  the  passage  from  the 
street  into  the  temple.  Here  we  paused  awhile  and 
ate  our  lunch,  and  refreshed  ourselves  with  water 
gathered  from  a  little  well  sunk  in  the  moss. 

The  quiet  and  repose  of  this  spruce  grove  proved 
to  be  the  calm  that  goes  before  the  storm.  As  we 
passed  out  of  it,  we  came  plump  upon  the  almost 
perpendicular  battlements  of  Slide.  The  mountain 
rose  like  a  huge,  rock-bound  fortress  from  this  plain- 
like  expanse.  It  was  ledge  upon  ledge,  precipice 
upon  precipice,  up  which  and  over  which  we  made 
our  way  slowly  and  with  great  labor,  now  pulling 
ourselves  up  by  our  hands,  then  cautiously  finding 
niches  for  our  feet  and  zigzagging  right  and  left  from 
shelf  to  shelf.  This  northern  side  of  the  mountain 
was  thickly  covered  with  moss  and  lichens,  like  the 
north  side  of  a  tree.  This  made  it  soft  to  the  foot, 
and  broke  many  a  slip  and  fall.  Everywhere  a 
stunted  growth  of  yellow  birch,  mountain-ash,  and 
spruce  and  fir  opposed  our  progress.  The  ascent  at 
164 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

such  an  angle  with  a  roll  of  blankets  on  your  back 
is  not  unlike  climbing  a  tree :  every  limb  resists  your 
progress  and  pushes  you  back;  so  that  when  we  at 
last  reached  the  summit,  after  twelve  or  fifteen  hun- 
dred feet  of  this  sort  of  work,  the  fight  was  about 
all  out  of  the  best  of  us.  It  was  then  nearly  two 
o'clock,  so  that  we  had  been  about  seven  hours  in 
coming  seven  miles. 

Here  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  we  overtook 
spring,  which  had  been  gone  from  the  valley  nearly 
a  month.  Red  clover  was  opening  in  the  valley 
below,  and  wild  strawberries  just  ripening  ;  on  the 
summit  the  yellow  birch  was  just  hanging  out  its 
catkins,  and  the  claytonia,  or  spring-beauty,  was  in 
bloom.  The  leaf-buds  of  the  trees  were  just  burst- 
ing, making  a  faint  mist  of  green,  which,  as  the  eye 
swept  downward,  gradually  deepened  until  it  be- 
came a  dense,  massive  cloud  in  the  valleys.  At  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  the  clintonia,  or  northern  green 
lily,  and  the  low  shadbush  were  showing  their  ber- 
ries, but  long  before  the  top  was  reached  they  were 
found  in  bloom.  I  had  never  before  stood  amid 
blooming  claytonia,  a  flower  of  April,  and  looked 
down  upon  a  field  that  held  ripening  strawberries. 
Every  thousand  feet  elevation  seemed  to  make  about 
ten  days'  difference  in  the  vegetation,  so  that  the 
season  was  a  month  or  more  later  on  the  top  of  the 
mountain  than  at  its  base.  A  very  pretty  flower 
which  we  began  to  meet  with  well  up  on  the  moun- 
165 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

tain-side  was  the  painted  trillium,  the  petals  white, 
veined  with  pink. 

The  low,  stunted  growth  of  spruce  and  fir  which 
clothes  the  top  of  Slide  has  been  cut  away  over  a 
small  space  on  the  highest  point,  laying  open  the 
view  on  nearly  all  sides.  Here  we  sat  down  and 
enjoyed  our  triumph.  We  saw  the  world  as  the 
hawk  or  the  balloonist  sees  it  when  he  is  three  thou- 
sand feet  in  the  air.  How  soft  and  flowing  all  the 
outlines  of  the  hills  and  mountains  beneath  us 
looked!  The  forests  dropped  down  and  undulated 
away  over  them,  covering  them  like  a  carpet.  To 
the  east  we  looked  over  the  near-by  Wittenberg 
range  to  the  Hudson  and  beyond ;  to  the  south, 
Peak-o'-Moose,  with  its  sharp  crest,  and  Table 
Mountain,  with  its  long  level  top,  were  the  two 
conspicuous  objects;  in  the  west,  Mt.  Graham  and 
Double  Top,  about  three  thousand  eight  hundred 
feet  each,  arrested  the  eye;  while  in  our  front  to  the 
north  we  looked  over  the  top  of  Panther  Mountain 
to  the  multitudinous  peaks  of  the  northern  Catskills. 
All  was  mountain  and  forest  on  every  hand.  Civili- 
zation seemed  to  have  done  little  more  than  to  have 
scratched  this  rough,  shaggy  surface  of  the  earth 
here  and  there.  In  any  such  view,  the  wild,  the 
aboriginal,  the  geographical  greatly  predominate. 
The  works  of  man  dwindle,  and  the  original  fea- 
tures of  the  huge  globe  come  out.  Every  single 
object  or  point  is  dwarfed;  the  valley  of  the  Rud- 
166 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

son  is  only  a  wrinkle  in  the  earth's  surface.  You 
discover  with  a  feeling  of  surprise  that  the  great 
thing  is  the  earth  itself,  which  stretches  away  on 
every  hand  so  far  beyond  your  ken. 

The  Arabs  believe  that  the  mountains  steady  the 
earth  and  hold  it  together;  but  they  have  only  to 
get  on  the  top  of  a  high  one  to  see  how  insignificant 
mountains  are,  and  how  adequate  the  earth  looks  to 
get  along  without  them.  To  the  imaginative  Oriental 
people,  mountains  seemed  to  mean  much  more  than 
they  do  to  us.  They  were  sacred ;  they  were  the 
abodes  of  their  divinities.  They  offered  their  sac- 
rifices upon  them.  In  the  Bible,  mountains  are  used 
as  a  symbol  of  that  which  is  great  and  holy.  Jeru- 
salem is  spoken  of  as  a  holy  mountain.  The  Syrians 
were  beaten  by  the  Children  of  Israel  because,  said 
they,  "  their  gods  are  gods  of  the  hills ;  therefore 
were  they  stronger  than  we."  It  was  on  Mount 
Horeb  that  God  appeared  to  Moses  in  the  burning 
bush,  and  on  Sinai  that  He  delivered  to  him  the  law. 
Josephus  says  that  the  Hebrew  shepherds  never 
pasture  their  flocks  on  Sinai,  believing  it  to  be  the 
abode  of  Jehovah.  The  solitude  of  mountain-tops 
is  peculiarly  impressive,  and  it  is  certainly  easier 
to  believe  the  Deity  appeared  in  a  burning  bush 
there  than  in  the  valley  below.  When  the  clouds 
of  heaven,  too,  come  down  and  envelop  the  top  of 
the  mountain,  —  how  such  a  circumstance  must  have 
impressed  the  old  God-fearing  Hebrews!  Moses 
167 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

knew  well  how  to  surround  the  law  with  the  pomp 
and  circumstance  that  would  inspire  the  deepest  awe 
and  reverence. 

But  when  the  clouds  came  down  and  enveloped 
us  on  Slide  Mountain,  the  grandeur,  the  solemnity, 
were  gone  in  a  twinkling ;  the  portentous-looking 
clouds  proved  to  be  nothing  but  base  fog  that  wet 
us  and  extinguished  the  world  for  us.  How  tame, 
and  prosy,  and  humdrum  the  scene  instantly  be- 
came !  But  when  the  fog  lifted,  and  we  looked  from 
under  it  as  from  under  a  just-raised  lid,  and  the  eye 
plunged  again  like  an  escaped  bird  into  those  vast 
gulfs  of  space  that  opened  at  our  feet,  the  feeling  of 
grandeur  and  solemnity  quickly  came  back. 

The  first  want  we  felt  on  the  top  of  Slide,  after 
we  had  got  some  rest,  was  a  want  of  water.  Several 
of  us  cast  about,  right  and  left,  but  no  sign  of  water 
was  found.  But  water  must  be  had,  so  we  all 
started  off  deliberately  to  hunt  it  up.  We  had  not 
gone  many  hundred  yards  before  we  chanced  upon 
an  ice-cave  beneath  some  rocks,  —  vast  masses  of 
ice,  with  crystal  pools  of  water  near.  This  was  good 
luck,  indeed,  and  put  a  new  and  a  brighter  face  on 
the  situation. 

Slide  Mountain  enjoys  a  distinction  which  no 
other  mountain  in  the  State,  so  far  as  is  known,  does, 
—  it  has  a  thrush  peculiar  to  itself.  This  thrush  was 
discovered  and  described  by  Eugene  P.  Bicknell,  of 
New  York,  in  1880,  and  has  been  named  Bicknell's 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

thrush.  A  better  name  would  have  been  Slide  Moun- 
tain thrush,  as  the  bird  so  far  has  been  found  only 
on  this  mountain.1  I  did  not  see  or  hear  it  upon  the 
Wittenberg,  which  is  only  a  few  miles  distant,  and 
only  two  hundred  feet  lower.  In  its  appearance  to 
the  eye  among  the  trees,  one  would  not  distinguish  it 
from  the  gray-cheeked  thrush  of  Baird,  or  the  olive- 
backed  thrush,  but  its  song  is  totally  different.  The 
moment  I  heard  it  I  said,  "There  is  a  new  bird, 
a  new  thrush,"  for  the  quality  of  all  thrush  songs 
is  the  same.  A  moment  more,  and  I  knew  it  was 
Bicknell's  thrush.  The  song  is  in  a  minor  key,  finer, 
more  attenuated,  and  more  under  the  breath  than 
that  of  any  other  thrush.  It  seemed  as  if  the  bird 
was  blowing  in  a  delicate,  slender,  golden  tube,  so 
fine  and  yet  so  flute-like  and  resonant  the  song  ap- 
peared. At  times  it  was  like  a  musical  whisper  of 
great  sweetness  and  power.  The  birds  were  numer- 
ous about  the  summit,  but  we  saw  them  nowhere 
else.  No  other  thrush  was  seen,  though  a  few 
times  during  our  stay  I  caught  a  mere  echo  of  the 
hermit's  song  far  down  the  mountain-side.  A  bird 
I  was  not  prepared  to  see  or  to  hear  was  the  black- 
poll  warbler,  a  bird  usually  found  much  farther 
north,  but  here  it  was,  amid  the  balsam  firs,  uttering 
its  simple,  lisping  song. 

1  Bicknell's  thrush  tarns  out  to  be  the  more  southern  form  of 
the  gray-cheeked  thrush,  and  is  found  on  the  higher  mountains  of 
New  York  and  New  England. 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

The  rocks  on  the  tops  of  these  mountains  are 
quite  sure  to  attract  one's  attention,  even  if  he  have 
no  eye  for  such  things.  They  are  masses  of  light  red- 
dish conglomerate,  composed  of  round  wave-worn 
quartz  pebbles.  Every  pebble  has  been  shaped  and 
polished  upon  some  ancient  seacoast,  probably  the 
Devonian.  The  rock  disintegrates  where  it  is  most 
exposed  to  the  weather,  and  forms  a  loose  sandy  and 
pebbly  soil.  These  rocks  form  the  floor  of  the  coal 
formation,  but  in  the  Catskill  region  only  the  floor 
remains;  the  superstructure  has  never  existed,  or 
has  been  swept  away;  hence  one  would  look  for  a 
coal  mine  here  over  his  head  in  the  air,  rather  than 
under  his  feet. 

This  rock  did  not  have  to  climb  up  here  as  we 
did;  the  mountain  stooped  and  took  it  upon  its  back 
in  the  bottom  of  the  old  seas,  and  then  got  lifted  up 
again.  This  happened  so  long  ago  that  the  mem- 
ory of  the  oldest  inhabitants  of  these  parts  yields  no 
clew  to  the  time. 

A  pleasant  task  we  had  in  reflooring  and  reroofing 
the  log-hut  with  balsam  boughs  against  the  night. 
Plenty  of  small  balsams  grew  all  about,  and  we  soon 
had  a  huge  pile  of  their  branches  in  the  old  hut. 
What  a  transformation,  this  fresh  green  carpet  and 
our  fragrant  bed,  like  the  deep-furred  robe  of  some 
huge  animal,  wrought  in  that  dingy  interior!  Two 
or  three  things  disturbed  our  sleep.  A  cup  of  strong 
beef -tea  taken  for  supper  disturbed  mine;  then  the 
170 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

porcupines  kept  up  such  a  grunting  and  chattering 
near  our  heads,  just  on  the  other  side  of  the  log,  that 
sleep  was  difficult.  In  my  wakeful  mood  I  was  a 
good  deal  annoyed  by  a  little  rabbit  that  kept  whip- 
ping in  at  our  dilapidated  door  and  nibbling  at  our 
bread  and  hardtack.  He  persisted  even  after  the 
gray  of  the  morning  appeared.  Then  about  four 
o'clock  it  began  gently  to  rain.  I  think  I  heard  the 
first  drop  that  fell.  My  companions  were  all  in 
sound  sleep.  The  rain  increased,  and  gradually  the 
sleepers  awoke.  It  was  like  the  tread  of  an  advan- 
cing enemy  which  every  ear  had  been  expecting. 
The  roof  over  us  was  of  the  poorest,  and  we  had 
no  confidence  in  it.  It  was  made  of  the  thin  bark  of 
spruce  and  balsam,  and  was  full  of  hollows  and  de- 
pressions. Presently  these  hollows  got  full  of  water, 
when  there  was  a  simultaneous  downpour  of  bigger 
and  lesser  rills  upon  the  sleepers  beneath.  Said 
sleepers,  as  one  man,  sprang  up,  each  taking  his  blan- 
ket with  him;  but  by  the  time  some  of  the  party  had 
got  themselves  stowed  away  under  the  adjacent  rock, 
the  rain  ceased.  It  was  little  more  than  the  dis- 
solving of  the  nightcap  of  fog  which  so  often  hangs 
about  these  heights.  With  the  first  appearance  of 
the  dawn  I  had  heard  the  new  thrush  in  the  scattered 
trees  near  the  hut,  —  a  strain  as  fine  as  if  blown  upon 
a  fairy  flute,  a  suppressed  musical  whisper  from  out 
the  tops  of  the  dark  spruces.  Probably  never  did 
there  go  up  from  the  top  of  a  great  mountain  a 
171 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

smaller  song  to  greet  the  day,  albeit  it  was  of  the 
purest  harmony.  It  seemed  to  have  in  a  more 
marked  degree  the  quality  of  interior  reverberation 
than  any  other  thrush  song  I  had  ever  heard.  Would 
the  altitude  or  the  situation  account  for  its  minor 
key?  Loudness  would  avail  little  in  such  a  place. 
Sounds  are  not  far  heard  on  a  mountain-top;  they 
are  lost  in  the  abyss  of  vacant  air.  But  amid  these 
low,  dense,  dark  spruces,  which  make  a  sort  of  can- 
opied privacy  of  every  square  rod  of  ground,  what 
could  be  more  in  keeping  than  this  delicate  musical 
whisper  ?  It  was  but  the  soft  hum  of  the  balsams, 
interpreted  and  embodied  in  a  bird's  voice. 

It  was  the  plan  of  two  of  our  companions  to  go 
from  Slide  over  into  the  head  of  the  Rondout,  and 
thence  out  to  the  railroad  at  the  little  village  of 
Shokan,  an  unknown  way  to  them,  involving  nearly 
an  all-day  pull  the  first  day  through  a  pathless  wil- 
derness. We  ascended  to  the  topmost  floor  of  the 
tower,  and  from  my  knowledge  of  the  topography 
of  the  country  I  pointed  out  to  them  their  course, 
and  where  the  valley  of  the  Rondout  must  lie.  The 
vast  stretch  of  woods,  when  it  came  into  view  from 
under  the  foot  of  Slide,  seemed  from  our  point  of 
view  very  uniform.  It  swept  away  to  the  southeast, 
rising  gently  toward  the  ridge  that  separates  Lone 
Mountain  from  Peak-o'-Moose,  and  presented  a 
comparatively  easy  problem.  As  a  clew  to  the  course, 
the  line  where  the  dark  belt  or  saddle-cloth  of  spruce, 
172 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

which  covered  the  top  of  the  ridge  they  were  to  skirt, 
ended,  and  the  deciduous  woods  began,  a  sharp,  well- 
defined  line  was  pointed  out  as  the  course  to  be  fol- 
lowed. It  led  straight  to  the  top  of  the  broad  level- 
backed  ridge  which  connected  two  higher  peaks,  and 
immediately  behind  which  lay  the  headwaters  of  the 
Rondout.  Having  studied  the  map  thoroughly,  and 
possessed  themselves  of  the  points,  they  rolled  up 
their  blankets  about  nine  o'clock,  and  were  off,  my 
friend  and  I  purposing  to  spend  yet  another  day 
and  night  on  Slide.  As  our  friends  plunged  down 
into  that  fearful  abyss,  we  shouted  to  them  the 
old  classic  caution,  "Be  bold,  be  bold,  be  not  too 
bold."  It  required  courage  to  make  such  a  leap  into 
the  unknown,  as  I  knew  those  young  men  were  mak- 
ing, and  it  required  prudence.  A  faint  heart  or  a 
bewildered  head,  and  serious  consequences  might 
have  resulted.  The  theory  of  a  thing  is  so  much 
easier  than  the  practice !  The  theory  is  in  the  air, 
the  practice  is  in  the  woods;  the  eye,  the  thought, 
travel  easily  where  the  foot  halts  and  stumbles. 
However,  our  friends  made  the  theory  and  the  fact 
coincide ;  they  kept  the  dividing  line  between  the 
spruce  and  the  birches,  and  passed  over  the  ridge 
into  the  valley  safely ;  but  they  were  torn  and  bruised 
and  wet  by  the  showers,  and  made  the  last  few  miles 
of  their  journey  on  will  and  pluck  alone,  their  last 
pound  of  positive  strength  having  been  exhausted  in 
making  the  descent  through  the  chaos  of  rocks  and 
173 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

logs  into  the  head  of  the  valley.  In  such  emergen- 
cies one  overdraws  his  account ;  he  travels  on  the 
credit  of  the  strength  he  expects  to  gain  when  he 
gets  his  dinner  and  some  sleep.  Unless  one  has 
made  such  a  trip  himself  (and  I  have  several  times 
in  my  life),  he  can  form  but  a  faint  idea  what  it  is 
like,  —  what  a  trial  it  is  to  the  body,  and  what  a  trial 
it  is  to  the  mind.  You  are  fighting  a  battle  with 
an  enemy  in  ambush.  How  those  miles  and  leagues 
which  your  feet  must  compass  lie  hidden  there  in 
that  wilderness;  how  they  seem  to  multiply  them- 
selves; how  they  are  fortified  with  logs,  and  rocks, 
and  fallen  trees ;  how  they  take  refuge  in  deep  gul- 
lies, and  skulk  behind  unexpected  eminences !  Your 
body  not  only  feels  the  fatigue  of  the  battle,  your 
mind  feels  the  strain  of  the  undertaking;  you  may 
miss  your  mark;  the  mountains  may  outmanoeuvre 
you.  All  that  day,  whenever  I  looked  upon  that 
treacherous  wilderness,  I  thought  with  misgivings 
of  those  two  friends  groping  their  way  there,  and 
would  have  given  much  to  know  how  it  fared  with 
them.  Their  concern  was  probably  less  than  my 
own,  because  they  were  more  ignorant  of  what  was 
before  them.  Then  there  was  just  a  slight  shadow 
of  a  fear  in  my  mind  that  I  might  have  been  in  error 
about  some  points  of  the  geography  I  had  pointed 
out  to  them.  But  all  was  well,  and  the  victory 
was  won  according  to  the  campaign  which  I  had 
planned.  When  we  saluted  our  friends  upon  their 
174 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

own  doorstep  a  week  afterward,  the  wounds  were 
nearly  healed  and  the  rents  all  mended. 

When  one  is  on  a  mountain-top,  he  spends  most 
of  the  time  in  looking  at  the  show  he  has  been  at 
such  pains  to  see.  About  every  hour  we  would  as- 
cend the  rude  lookout  to  take  a  fresh  observation. 
With  a  glass  I  could  see  my  native  hills  forty  miles 
away  to  the  northwest.  I  was  now  upon  the  back 
of  the  horse,  yea,  upon  the  highest  point  of  his 
shoulders,  which  had  so  many  times  attracted  my 
attention  as  a  boy.  We  could  look  along  his  balsam- 
covered  back  to  his  rump,  from  which  the  eye 
glanced  away  down  into  the  forests  of  the  Never- 
sink,  and  on  the  other  hand  plump  down  into  the 
gulf  where  his  head  was  grazing  or  drinking.  Dur- 
ing the  day  there  was  a  grand  procession  of  thunder- 
clouds filing  along  over  the  northern  Catskills,  and 
letting  down  veils  of  rain  and  enveloping  them. 
From  such  an  elevation  one  has  the  same  view 
of  the  clouds  that  he  does  from  the  prairie  or  the 
ocean.  They  do  not  seem  to  rest  across  and  to  be 
upborne  by  the  hills,  but  they  emerge  out  of  the 
dim  west,  thin  and  vague,  and  grow  and  stand  up 
as  they  get  nearer  and  roll  by  him,  on  a  level 
but  invisible  highway,  huge  chariots  of  wind  and 
storm. 

In  the  afternoon  a  thick  cloud  threatened  us,  but 
it  proved  to  be  the  condensation  of  vapor  that  an- 
nounces a  cold  wave.  There  was  soon  a  marked  fall 
175 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

in  the  temperature,  and  as  night  drew  near  it  became 
pretty  certain  that  we  were  going  to  have  a  cold 
time  of  it.  The  wind  rose,  the  vapor  above  us  thick- 
ened and  came  nearer,  until  it  began  to  drive  across 
the  summit  in  slender  wraiths,  which  curled  over  the 
brink  and  shut  out  the  view.  We  became  very  dili- 
gent in  getting  in  our  night  wood,  and  in  gathering 
more  boughs  to  calk  up  the  openings  in  the  hut. 
The  wood  we  scraped  together  was  a  sorry  lot,  roots 
and  stumps  and  branches  of  decayed  spruce,  such  as 
we  could  collect  without  an  axe,  and  some  rags  and 
tags  of  birch  bark.  The  fire  was  built  in  one  corner 
of  the  shanty,  the  smoke  finding  easy  egress  through 
large  openings  on  the  east  side  and  in  the  roof  over 
it.  We  doubled  up  the  bed,  making  it  thicker  and 
more  nest-like,  and  as  darkness  set  in,  stowed  our- 
selves into  it  beneath  our  blankets.  The  searching 
wind  found  out  every  crevice  about  our  heads  and 
shoulders,  and  it  was  icy  cold.  Yet  we  fell  asleep, 
and  had  slept  about  an  hour  when  my  companion 
sprang  up  in  an  unwonted  state  of  excitement  for  so 
placid  a  man.  His  excitement  was  occasioned  by  the 
sudden  discovery  that  what  appeared  to  be  a  bar  of 
ice  was  fast  taking  the  place  of  his  backbone.  His 
teeth  chattered,  and  he  was  convulsed  with  ague.  I 
advised  him  to  replenish  the  fire,  and  to  wrap  him- 
self in  his  blanket  and  cut  the  liveliest  capers  he  was 
capable  of  in  so  circumscribed  a  place.  This  he 
promptly  did,  and  the  thought  of  his  wild  and  des- 
176 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

perate  dance  there  in  the  dim  light,  his  tall  form, 
his  blanket  flapping,  his  teeth  chattering,  the  por- 
cupines outside  marking  time  with  their  squeals  and 
grunts,  still  provokes  a  smile,  though  it  was  a  seri- 
ous enough  matter  at  the  time.  After  a  while,  the 
warmth  came  back  to  him,  but  he  dared  not  trust 
himself  again  to  the  boughs;  he  fought  the  cold  all 
night  as  one  might  fight  a  besieging  foe.  By  care- 
fully husbanding  the  fuel,  the  beleaguering  enemy 
was  kept  at  bay  till  morning  came;  but  when  morn- 
ing did  come,  even  the  huge  root  he  had  used  as  a 
chair  was  consumed.  Rolled  in  my  blanket  beneath 
a  foot  or  more  of  balsam  boughs,  I  had  got  some 
fairly  good  sleep,  and  was  most  of  the  time  oblivi- 
ous of  the  melancholy  vigil  of  my  friend.  As  we 
had  but  a  few  morsels  of  food  left,  and  had  been 
on  rather  short  rations  the  day  before,  hunger  was 
added  to  his  other  discomforts.  At  that  time  a 
letter  was  on  the  way  to  him  from  his  wife,  which 
contained  this  prophetic  sentence  :  "  I  hope  thee  is 
not  suffering  with  cold  and  hunger  on  some  lone 
mountain-top." 

Mr.  Bicknell's  thrush  struck  up  again  at  the  first 
signs  of  dawn,  notwithstanding  the  cold.  I  could 
hear  his  penetrating  and  melodious  whisper  as  I  lay 
buried  beneath  the  boughs.  Presently  I  arose  and 
invited  my  friend  to  turn  in  for  a  brief  nap,  while 
I  gathered  some  wood  and  set  the  coffee  brewing. 
With  a  brisk,  roaring  fire  on,  I  left  for  the  spring 
177 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

to  fetch  some  water,  and  to  make  my  toilet.  The 
leaves  of  the  mountain  goldenrod,  which  everywhere 
covered  the  ground  in  the  opening,  were  covered 
with  frozen  particles  of  vapor,  and  the  scene,  shut 
in  by  fog,  was  chill  and  dreary  enough. 

We  were  now  not  long  in  squaring  an  account  with 
Slide,  and  making  ready  to  leave.  Round  pellets  of 
snow  began  to  fall,  and  we  came  off  the  mountain 
on  the  10th  of  June  in  a  November  storm  and  tem- 
perature. Our  purpose  was  to  return  by  the  same 
valley  we  had  come.  A  well-defined  trail  led  off 
the  summit  to  the  north;  to  this  we  committed  our- 
selves. In  a  few  minutes  we  emerged  at  the  head 
of  the  slide  that  had  given  the  mountain  its  name. 
This  was  the  path  made  by  visitors  to  the  scene; 
when  it  ended,  the  track  of  the  avalanche  began ; 
no  bigger  than  your  hand,  apparently,  had  it  been 
at  first,  but  it  rapidly  grew,  until  it  became  several 
rods  in  width.  It  dropped  down  from  our  feet 
straight  as  an  arrow  until  it  was  lost  in  the  fog, 
and  looked  perilously  steep.  The  dark  forms  of  the 
spruce  were  clinging  to  the  edge  of  it,  as  if  reaching 
out  to  their  fellows  to  save  them.  We  hesitated  on 
the  brink,  but  finally  cautiously  began  the  descent. 
The  rock  was  quite  naked  and  slippery,  and  only  on 
the  margin  of  the  slide  were  there  any  boulders  to 
stay  the  foot,  or  bushy  growths  to  aid  the  hand.  As 
we  paused,  after  some  minutes,  to  select  our  course, 
one  of  the  finest  surprises  of  the  trip  awaited  us: 
178 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

the  fog  in  our  front  was  swiftly  whirled  up  by  the 
breeze,  like  the  drop-curtain  at  the  theatre,  only 
much  more  rapidly,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  vast  gulf 
opened  before  us.  It  was  so  sudden  as  to  be  almost 
bewildering.  The  world  opened  like  a  book,  and 
there  were  the  pictures;  the  spaces  were  without  a 
film,  the  forests  and  mountains  looked  surprisingly 
near;  in  the  heart  of  the  northern  Catskills  a  wild 
valley  was  seen  flooded  with  sunlight.  Then  the 
curtain  ran  down  again,  and  nothing  was  left  but 
the  gray  strip  of  rock  to  which  we  clung,  plunging 
down  into  the  obscurity.  Down  and  down  we  made 
our  way.  Then  the  fog  lifted  again.  It  was  Jack 
and  his  beanstalk  renewed ;  new  wonders,  new 
views,  awaited  us  every  few  moments,  till  at  last 
the  whole  valley  below  us  stood  in  the  clear  sun- 
shine. We  passed  down  a  precipice,  and  there  was  a 
rill  of  water,  the  beginning  of  the  creek  that  wound 
through  the  valley  below ;  farther  on,  in  a  deep 
depression,  lay  the  remains  of  an  old  snow-bank ; 
Winter  had  made  his  last  stand  here,  and  April 
flowers  were  springing  up  almost  amid  his  very 
bones.  We  did  not  find  a  palace,  and  a  hungry- 
giant,  and  a  princess,  at  the  end  of  our  beanstalk, 
but  we  found  a  humble  roof  and  the  hospitable  heart 
of  Mrs.  Larkins,  which  answered  our  purpose  bet- 
ter. And  we  were  in  the  mood,  too,  to  have  under- 
taken an  eating-bout  with  any  giant  Jack  ever 
discovered. 

179 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

Of  all  the  retreats  I  have  found  amid  the  Cats- 
kills,  there  is  no  other  that  possesses  quite  so  many 
charms  for  me  as  this  valley,  wherein  stands  Lar- 
kins's  humble  dwelling;  it  is  so  wild,  so  quiet,  and 
has  such  superb  mountain  views.  In  coming  up  the 
valley,  you  have  apparently  reached  the  head  of  civ- 
ilization a  mile  or  more  lower  down;  here  the  rude 
little  houses  end,  and  you  turn  to  the  left  into  the 
woods.  Presently  you  emerge  into  a  clearing  again, 
and  before  you  rises  the  rugged  and  indented  crest 
of  Panther  Mountain,  and  near  at  hand,  on  a  low 
plateau,  rises  the  humble  roof  of  Larkins,  —  you  get 
a  picture  of  the  Panther  and  of  the  homestead  at 
one  glance.  Above  the  house  hangs  a  high,  bold  cliff 
covered  with  forest,  with  a  broad  fringe  of  blackened 
and  blasted  tree-trunks,  where  the  cackling  of  the 
great  pileated  woodpecker  may  be  heard;  on  the  left 
a  dense  forest  sweeps  up  to  the  sharp  spruce-covered 
cone  of  the  Wittenberg,  nearly  four  thousand  feet 
high,  while  at  the  head  of  the  valley  rises  Slide 
over  all.  From  a  meadow  just  back  of  Larkins's 
barn,  a  view  may  be  had  of  all  these  mountains, 
while  the  terraced  side  of  Cross  Mountain  bounds 
the  view  immediately  to  the  east.  Running  from 
the  top  of  Panther  toward  Slide  one  sees  a  gigantic 
wall  of  rock,  crowned  with  a  dark  line  of  fir.  The 
forest  abruptly  ends,  and  in  its  stead  rises  the  face 
of  this  colossal  rocky  escarpment,  like  some  bar- 
rier built  by  the  mountain  gods.  Eagles  might  nest 
180 


LARKIXS'S  HUMBLE  DWELLING 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

here.  It  breaks  the  monotony  of  the  world  of  woods 
very  impressively. 

I  delight  in  sitting  on  a  rock  in  one  of  these  upper 
fields,  and  seeing  the  sun  go  down  behind  Panther. 
The  rapid-flowing  brook  below  me  fills  all  the  val- 
ley with  a  soft  murmur.  There  is  no  breeze,  but 
the  great  atmospheric  tide  flows  slowly  in  toward 
the  cooling  forest;  one  can  see  it  by  the  motes  in  the 
air  illuminated  by  the  setting  sun :  presently,  as  the 
air  cools  a  little,  the  tide  turns  and  flows  slowly  out. 
The  long,  winding  valley  up  to  the  foot  of  Slide, 
five  miles  of  primitive  woods,  how  wild  and  cool  it 
looks,  its  one  voice  the  murmur  of  the  creek!  On 
the  Wittenberg  the  sunshine  lingers  long ;  now  it 
stands  up  like  an  island  in  a  sea  of  shadows,  then 
slowly  sinks  beneath  the  wave.  The  evening  call 
of  a  robin  or  a  veery  at  his  vespers  makes  a  marked 
impression  on  the  silence  and  the  solitude. 

The  following  day  my  friend  and  I  pitched  our 
tent  in  the  woods  beside  the  stream  where  I  had 
pitched  it  twice  before,  and  passed  several  delightful 
days,  with  trout  in  abundance  and  wild  strawberries 
at  intervals.  Mrs.  Larkins's  cream-pot,  butter-jar, 
and  bread-box  were  within  easy  reach.  Near  the 
camp  was  an  unusually  large  spring,  of  icy  coldness, 
which  served  as  our  refrigerator.  Trout  or  milk  im- 
mersed in  this  spring  in  a  tin  pail  would  keep  sweet 
four  or  five  days.  One  night  some  creature,  prob- 
ably a  lynx  or  a  raccoon,  came  and  lifted  the  stone 
181 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

from  the  pail  that  held  the  trout  and  took  out  a  fine 
string  of  them,  and  ate  them  up  on  the  spot,  leav- 
ing only  the  string  and  one  head.  In  August  bears 
come  down  to  an  ancient  and  now  brushy  bark- 
peeling  near  by  for  blackberries.  But  the  creature 
that  most  infests  these  backwoods  is  the  porcupine. 
He  is  as  stupid  and  indifferent  as  the  skunk ;  his 
broad,  blunt  nose  points  a  witless  head.  They  are 
great  gnawers,  and  will  gnaw  youi  house  down  if  you 
do  not  look  out.  Of  a  summer  evening  they  will 
walk  coolly  into  your  open  door  if  not  prevented. 
The  most  annoying  animal  to  the  camper-out  in  this 
region,  and  the  one  he  needs  to  be  most  on  the  look- 
out for,  is  the  cow.  Backwoods  cows  and  young 
cattle  seem  always  to  be  famished  for  salt,  and  they 
will  fairly  lick  the  fisherman's  clothes  off  his  back, 
and  his  tent  and  equipage  out  of  existence,  if  you 
give  them  a  chance.  On  one  occasion  some  wood- 
ranging  heifers  and  steers  that  had  been  hovering 
around  our  camp  for  some  days  made  a  raid  upon 
it  when  we  were  absent.  The  tent  was  shut  and 
everything  snugged  up,  but  they  ran  their  long 
tongues  under  the  tent^and,  tasting  something  sa- 
vory, hooked  out  John  Stuart  Mill's  "  Essays  on  Re- 
ligion," which  one  of  us  had  brought  along,  think- 
ing to  read  in  the  woods.  They  mouthed  the  volume 
around  a  good  deal,  but  its  logic  was  too  tough  for 
them,  and  they  contented  themselves  with  devour- 
ing the  paper  in  which  it  was  wrapped.  If  the  cat- 
182 


THE   SOUTHERN   CATSKILLS 

tie  had  not  been  surprised  at  just  that  point,  it  is 
probable  the  tent  would  have  gone  down  before  their 
eager  curiosity  and  thirst  for  salt. 

The  raid  which  Larkins's  dog  made  upon  our 
camp  was  amusing  rather  than  annoying.  He  was 
a  very  friendly  and  intelligent  shepherd  dog,  prob- 
ably a  collie.  Hardly  had  we  sat  down  to  our  first 
lunch  in  camp  before  he  called  on  us.  But  as  he  was 
disposed  to  be  too  friendly,  and  to  claim  too  large 
a  share  of  the  lunch,  we  rather  gave  him  the  cold 
shoulder.  He  did  not  come  again;  but  a  few  even- 
ings afterward,  as  we  sauntered  over  to  the  house 
on  some  trifling  errand,  the  dog  suddenly  conceived 
a  bright  little  project.  He  seemed  to  say  to  himself, 
on  seeing  us,  "  There  come  both  of  them  now,  just 
as  I  have  been  hoping  they  would;  now,  while  they 
are  away,  I  will  run  quickly  over  and  know  what 
they  have  got  that  a  dog  can  eat."  My  companion 
saw  the  dog  get  up  on  our  arrival,  and  go  quickly  in 
the  direction  of  our  camp,  and  he  said  something  in 
the  cur's  manner  suggested  to  him  the  object  of  his 
hurried  departure.  He  called  my  attention  to  the 
fact,  and  we  hastened  back.  On  cautiously  nearing 
camp,  the  dog  was  seen  amid  the  pails  in  the  shal- 
low water  of  the  creek  investigating  them.  He  had 
uncovered  the  butter,  and  was  about  to  taste  it, 
when  we  shouted,  and  he  made  quick  steps  for 
home,  with  a  very  "kill-sheep"  look.  When  we 
again  met  him  at  the  house  next  day,  he  could  not 
183 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

look  us  in  the  face,  but  sneaked  off,  utterly  crest- 
fallen. This  was  a  clear  case  of  reasoning  on  the 
part  of  the  dog,  and  afterward  a  clear  case  of  a  sense 
of  guilt  from  wrong-doing.  The  dog  will  probably 
be  a  man  before  any  other  animal. 


VII 

SPECKLED  TROUT 


vn 

SPECKLED  TROUT 


legend  of  the  wary  trout,  hinted  at  in  the 
JL.  last  sketch,  is  to  be  further  illustrated  in  this 
and  some  following  chapters.  We  shall  get  at  more 
of  the  meaning  of  those  dark  water-lines,  and  I 
hope,  also,  not  entirely  miss  the  significance  of  the 
gold  and  silver  spots  and  the  glancing  iridescent 
hues.  The  trout  is  dark  and  obscure  above,  but 
behind  this  foil  there  are  wondrous  tints  that  reward 
the  believing  eye.  Those  who  seek  him  in  his  wild 
remote  haunts  are  quite  sure  to  get  the  full  force  of 
the  sombre  and  uninviting  aspects,  —  the  wet,  the 
cold,  the  toil,  the  broken  rest,  and  the  huge,  savage, 
uncompromising  nature,  —  but  the  true  angler  sees 
farther  than  these,  and  is  never  thwarted  of  his 
legitimate  reward  by  them. 

I  have  been  a  seeker  of  trout  from  my  boyhood, 
and  on  all  the  expeditions  in  which  this  fish  has 
been  the  ostensible  purpose  I  have  brought  home 
more  game  than  my  creel  showed.  In  fact,  in  my 
mature  years  I  find  I  got  more  of  nature  into  me, 
more  of  the  woods,  the  wild,  nearer  to  bird  and 
187 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

beast,  while  threading  my  native  streams  for  trout, 
than  in  almost  any  other  way.  It  furnished  a  good 
excuse  to  go  forth;  it  pitched  one  in  the  right  key; 
it  sent  one  through  the  fat  and  marrowy  places  of 
field  and  wood.  Then  the  fisherman  has  a  harm- 
less, preoccupied  look;  he  is  a  kind  of  vagrant  that 
nothing  fears.  He  blends  himself  with  the  trees 
and  the  shadows.  All  his  approaches  are  gentle 
and  indirect.  He  times  himself  to  the  meandering, 
soliloquizing  stream;  its  impulse  bears  him  along. 
At  the  foot  of  the  waterfall  he  sits  sequestered  and 
hidden  in  its  volume  of  sound.  The  birds  know  he 
has  no  designs  upon  them,  and  the  animals  see  that 
his  mind  is  in  the  creek.  His  enthusiasm  anneals 
him,  and  makes  him  pliable  to  the  scenes  and  in- 
fluences he  moves  among. 

Then  what  acquaintance  he  makes  with  the 
stream  !  He  addresses  himself  to  it  as  a  lover  to 
his  mistress;  he  wooes  it  and  stays  with  it  till  he 
knows  its  most  hidden  secrets.  It  runs  through  his 
thoughts  not  less  than  through  its  banks  there;  he 
feels  the  fret  and  thrust  of  every  bar  and  boulder. 
Where  it  deepens,  his  purpose  deepens;  where  it  is 
shallow,  he  is  indifferent.  He  knows  how  to  inter- 
pret its  every  glance  and  dimple;  its  beauty  haunts 
him  for  days. 

I  am  sure  I  run  no  risk  of  overpraising  the  charm 
and  attractiveness  of  a  well-fed  trout  stream,  every 
drop  of  water  in  it  as  bright  and  pure  as  if  the 
188 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

nymphs  had  brought  it  all  the  way  from  its  source 
in  crystal  goblets,  and  as  cool  as  if  it  had  been 
hatched  beneath  a  glacier.  When  the  heated  and 
soiled  and  jaded  refugee  from  the  city  first  sees  one, 
he  feels  as  if  he  would  like  to  turn  it  into  his  bosom 
and  let  it  flow  through  him  a  few  hours,  it  suggests 
such  healing  freshness  and  newness.  How  his  roily 
thoughts  would  run  clear;  how  the  sediment  would 
go  downstream !  Could  he  ever  have  an  impure  or 
an  unwholesome  wish  afterward?  The  next  best 
thing  he  can  do  is  to  tramp  along  its  banks  and 
surrender  himself  to  its  influence.  If  he  reads  it 
intently  enough,  he  will,  in  a  measure,  be  taking  it 
into  his  mind  and  heart,  and  experiencing  its  salu- 
tary ministrations. 

Trout  streams  coursed  through  every  valley  my 
boyhood  knew.  I  crossed  them,  and  was  often  lured 
and  detained  by  them,  on  my  way  to  and  from 
school.  We  bathed  in  them  during  the  long  sum- 
mer noons,  and  felt  for  the  trout  under  their  banks. 
A  holiday  was  a  holiday  indeed  that  brought  per- 
mission to  go  fishing  over  on  Rose's  Brook,  or  up 
Hardscrabble,  or  in  Meeker's  Hollow;  all-day  trips, 
from  morning  till  night,  through  meadows  and  pas- 
tures and  beechen  woods,  wherever  the  shy,  limpid 
stream  led.  What  an  appetite  it  developed !  a  hun- 
ger that  was  fierce  and  aboriginal,  and  that  the  wild 
strawberries  we  plucked  as  we  crossed  the  hill  teased 
rather  than  allayed.  When  but  a  few  hours  could 
189 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

be  had,  gained  perhaps  by  doing  some  piece  of  work 
about  the  farm  or  garden  in  half  the  allotted  time, 
the  little  creek  that  headed  in  the  paternal  domain 
was  handy;  when  half  a  day  was  at  one's  disposal, 
there  were  the  hemlocks,  less  than  a  mile  distant, 
with  their  loitering,  meditative,  log-impeded  stream 
and  their  dusky,  fragrant  depths.  Alert  and  wide- 
eyed,  one  picked  his  way  along,  startled  now  and 
then  by  the  sudden  bursting-up  of  the  partridge,  or 
by  the  whistling  wings  of  the  "dropping  snipe," 
pressing  through  the  brush  and  the  briers,  or  find- 
ing an  easy  passage  over  the  trunk  of  a  prostrate  tree, 
carefully  letting  his  hook  down  through  some  tangle 
into  a  still  pool,  or  standing  in  some  high,  sombre 
avenue  and  watching  his  line  float  in  and  out  amid 
the  moss-covered  boulders.  In  my  first  essayings  I 
used  to  go  to  the  edge  of  these  hemlocks,  seldom 
dipping  into  them  beyond  the  first  pool  where  the 
stream  swept  under  the  roots  of  two  large  trees. 
From  this  point  I  could  look  back  into  the  sunlit 
fields  where  the  cattle  were  grazing;  beyond,  all  was 
gloom  and  mystery;  the  trout  were  black,  and  to 
my  young  imagination  the  silence  and  the  shadows 
were  blacker.  But  gradually  I  yielded  to  the  fasci- 
nation and  penetrated  the  woods  farther  and  farther 
on  each  expedition,  till  the  heart  of  the  mystery  was 
fairly  plucked  out.  During  the  second  or  third  year 
of  my  piscatorial  experience  I  went  through  them, 
and  through  the  pasture  and  meadow  beyond,  and 
190 


THE  FARM  BOY 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

through  another  strip  of  hemlocks,  to  where  the 
little  stream  joined  the  main  creek  of  the  valley. 

In  June,  when  my  trout  fever  ran  pretty  high,  and 
an  auspicious  day  arrived,  I  would  make  a  trip  to 
a  stream  a  couple  of  miles  distant,  that  came  down 
out  of  a  comparatively  new  settlement.  It  was  a 
rapid  mountain  brook  presenting  many  difficult 
problems  to  the  young  angler,  but  a  very  enticing 
stream  for  all  that,  with  its  two  saw-mill  dams,  its 
pretty  cascades,  its  high,  shelving  rocks  sheltering 
the  mossy  nests  of  the  phcebe-bird,  and  its  general 
wild  and  forbidding  aspects. 

But  a  meadow  brook  was  always  a  favorite.  The 
trout  like  meadows;  doubtless  their  food  is  more 
abundant  there,  and,  usually,  the  good  hiding-places 
are  more  numerous.  As  soon  as  you  strike  a  meadow 
the  character  of  the  creek  changes :  it  goes  slower 
and  lies  deeper;  it  tarries  to  enjoy  the  high,  cool 
banks  and  to  half  hide  beneath  them;  it  loves  the 
willows,  or  rather  the  willows  love  it  and  shelter  it 
from  the  sun ;  its  spring  runs  are  kept  cool  by  the 
overhanging  grass,  and  the  heavy  turf  that  faces  its 
open  banks  is  not  cut  away  by  the  sharp  hoofs  of 
the  grazing  cattle.  Then  there  are  the  bobolinks 
and  the  starlings  and  the  meadowlarks,  always  in- 
terested spectators  of  the  angler;  there  are  also  the 
marsh  marigolds,  the  buttercups,  or  the  spotted  lilies, 
and  the  good  angler  is  always  an  interested  spectator 
of  them.  In  fact,  the  patches  of  meadow  land  that 
191 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

lie  in  the  angler's  course  are  like  the  happy  experi- 
ences in  his  own  life,  or  like  the  fine  passages  in  the 
poem  he  is  reading ;  the  pasture  oftener  contains 
the  shallow  and  monotonous  places.  In  the  small 
streams  the  cattle  scare  the  fish,  and  soil  their  ele- 
ment and  break  down  their  retreats  under  the  banks. 
Woodland  alternates  the  best  with  meadow:  the 
creek  loves  to  burrow  under  the  roots  of  a  great 
tree,  to  scoop  out  a  pool  after  leaping  over  the  pros- 
trate trunk  of  one,  and  to  pause  at  the  foot  of  a 
ledge  of  moss-covered  rocks,  with  ice-cold  water 
dripping  down.  How  straight  the  current  goes  for 
the  rock!  Note  its  corrugated,  muscular  appearance; 
it  strikes  and  glances  off,  but  accumulates,  deepens 
with  well-defined  eddies  above  and  to  one  side;  on 
the  edge  of  these  the  trout  lurk  and  spring  upon 
their  prey. 

The  angler  learns  that  it  is  generally  some  obstacle 
or  hindrance  that  makes  a  deep  place  in  the  creek, 
as  in  a  brave  life ;  and  his  ideal  brook  is  one  that  lies 
in  deep,  well-defined  banks,  yet  makes  many  a  shift 
from  right  to  left,  meets  with  many  rebuffs  and  ad- 
ventures, hurled  back  upon  itself  by  rocks,  waylaid 
by  snags  and  trees,  tripped  up  by  precipices,  but 
sooner  or  later  reposing  under  meadow  banks,  deep- 
ening and  eddying  beneath  bridges,  or  prosperous 
and  strong  in  some  level  stretch  of  cultivated  land 
with  great  elms  shading  it  here  and  there. 

But  I  early  learned  that  from  almost  any  stream 
192 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

in  a  trout  country  the  true  angler  could  take  trout, 
and  that  the  great  secret  was  this,  that,  whatever  bait 
you  used,  worm,  grasshopper,  grub,  or  fly,  there  was 
one  thing  you  must  always  put  upon  your  hook, 
namely,  your  heart :  when  you  bait  your  hook  with 
your  heart  the  fish  always  bite;  they  will  jump  clear 
from  the  water  after  it;  they  will  dispute  with  each 
other  over  it;  it  is  a  morsel  they  love  above  every- 
thing else.  With  such  bait  I  have  seen  the  born 
angler  (my  grandfather  was  one)  take  a  noble  string 
of  trout  from  the  most  unpromising  waters,  and 
on  the  most  unpromising  day.  He  used  his  hook  so 
coyly  and  tenderly,  he  approached  the  fish  with  such 
address  and  insinuation,  he  divined  the  exact  spot 
where  they  lay:  if  they  were  not  eager,  he  humored 
them  and  seemed  to  steal  by  them;  if  they  were 
playful  and  coquettish,  he  would  suit  his  mood  to 
theirs;  if  they  were  frank  and  sincere,  he  met  them 
halfway ;  he  was  so  patient  and  considerate,  so  en- 
tirely devoted  to  pleasing  the  critical  trout,  and  so 
successful  in  his  efforts,  —  surely  his  heart  was  upon 
his  hook,  and  it  was  a  tender,  unctuous  heart,  too,  as 
that  of  every  angler  is.  How  nicely  he  would  mea- 
sure the  distance !  how  dexterously  he  would  avoid 
an  overhanging  limb  or  bush  and  drop  the  line  ex- 
actly in  the  right  spot!  Of  course  there  was  a  pulse 
of  feeling  and  sympathy  to  the  extremity  of  that 
line.  If  your  heart  is  a  stone,  however,  or  an  empty 
husk,  there  is  no  use  to  put  it  upon  your  hook;  it 
193 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

will  not  tempt  the  fish ;  the  bait  must  be  quick  and 
fresh.  Indeed,  a  certain  quality  of  youth  is  indispen- 
sable to  the  successful  angler,  a  certain  unworldli- 
ness  and  readiness  to  invest  yourself  in  an  enterprise 
that  does  n't  pay  in  the  current  coin.  Not  only  is 
the  angler,  like  the  poet,  born  and  not  made,  as 
Walton  says,  but  there  is  a  deal  of  the  poet  in  him, 
and  he  is  to  be  judged  no  more  harshly;  he  is  the 
victim  of  his  genius:  those  wild  streams,  how  they 
haunt  him !  he  will  play  truant  to  dull  care,  and  flee 
to  them;  their  waters  impart  somewhat  of  their 
own  perpetual  youth  to  him.  My  grandfather  when 
he  was  eighty  years  old  would  take  down  his  pole 
as  eagerly  as  any  boy,  and  step  off  with  wonderful 
elasticity  toward  the  beloved  streams;  it  used  to 
try  my  young  legs  a  good  deal  to  follow  him,  spe- 
cially on  the  return  trip.  And  no  poet  was  ever 
more  innocent  of  worldly  success  or  ambition.  For, 
to  paraphrase  Tennyson,  — 

"  Lusty  trout  to  him  were  scrip  and  share, 
And  babbling  waters  more  than  cent  for  cent. ' ' 

He  laid  up  treasures,  but  they  were  not  in  this  world. 
In  fact,  though  the  kindest  of  husbands,  I  fear 
he  was  not  what  the  country  people  call  a  "  good 
provider,"  except  in  providing  trout  in  their  season, 
though  it  is  doubtful  if  there  was  always  fat  in  the 
house  to  fry  them  in.  But  he  could  tell  you  they 
were  worse  off  than  that  at  Valley  Forge,  and  that 
194 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

trout,  or  any  other  fish,  were  good  roasted  in  the 
ashes  under  the  coals.  He  had  the  Walton  requisite 
of  loving  quietness  and  contemplation,  and  was 
devout  withal.  Indeed,  in  many  ways  he  was  akin 
to  those  Galilee  fishermen  who  were  called  to  be 
fishers  of  men.  How  he  read  the  Book  and  pored 
over  it,  even  at  times,  I  suspect,  nodding  over  it,  and 
laying  it  down  only  to  take  up  his  rod,  over  which, 
unless  the  trout  were  very  dilatory  and  the  journey 
very  fatiguing,  he  never  nodded! 

II 

The  Delaware  is  one  of  our  minor  rivers,  but  it  is 
a  stream  beloved  of  the  trout.  Nearly  all  its  remote 
branches  head  in  mountain  springs,  and  its  collected 
waters,  even  when  warmed  by  the  summer  sun,  are 
as  sweet  and  wholesome  as  dew  swept  from  the  grass. 
The  Hudson  wins  from  it  two  streams  that  are 
fathered  by  the  mountains  from  whose  loins  most  of 
its  beginnings  issue,  namely,  the  Rondout  and  the 
Esopus.  These  swell  a  more  illustrious  current  than 
the  Delaware,  but  the  Rondout,  one  of  the  finest 
trout  streams  in  the  world,  makes  an  uncanny  alli- 
ance before  it  reaches  its  destination,  namely,  with 
the  malarious  Wallkill. 

In  the  same  nest  of  mountains  from  which  they 

start  are  born  the  Neversink  and  the  Beaverkill, 

streams  of  wondrous  beauty  that  flow  south  and 

west  into  the  Delaware.    From  my  native  hills  I 

195 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

could  catch  glimpses  of  the  mountains  in  whose 
laps  these  creeks  were  cradled,  but  it  was  not  till 
after  many  years,  and  after  dwelling  in  a  country 
where  trout  are  not  found,  that  I  returned  to  pay 
my  respects  to  them  as  an  angler. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  the  Neversink  was 
made  in  company  with  some  friends  in  1869.  We 
passed  up  the  valley  of  the  Big  Ingin,  marveling  at 
its  copious  ice-cold  springs,  and  its  immense  sweep 
of  heavy-timbered  mountain-sides.  Crossing  the 
range  at  its  head,  we  struck  the  Neversink  quite 
unexpectedly  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  at 
a  point  where  it  was  a  good-sized  trout  stream.  It 
proved  to  be  one  of  those  black  mountain  brooks 
born  of  innumerable  ice-cold  springs,  nourished  in 
the  shade,  and  shod,  as  it  were,  with  thick-matted 
moss,  that  every  camper-out  remembers.  The  fish 
are  as  black  as  the  stream  and  very  wild.  They 
dart  from  beneath  the  fringed  rocks,  or  dive  with 
the  hook  into  the  dusky  depths,  —  an  integral  part 
of  the  silence  and  the  shadows.  The  spell  of  the 
moss  is  over  all.  The  fisherman's  tread  is  noiseless, 
as  he  leaps  from  stone  to  stone  and  from  ledge  to 
ledge  along  the  bed  of  the  stream.  How  cool  it  is ! 
He  looks  up  the  dark,  silent  defile,  hears  the  soli- 
tary voice  of  the  water,  sees  the  decayed  trunks  of 
fallen  trees  bridging  the  stream,  and  all  he  has 
dreamed,  when  a  boy,  of  the  haunts  of  beasts  of 
prey  —  the  crouching  feline  tribes,  especially  if  it 
196 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

be  near  nightfall  and  the  gloom  already  deepening 
in  the  woods  —  comes  freshly  to  mind,  and  he 
presses  on,  wary  and  alert,  and  speaking  to  his 
companions  in  low  tones. 

After  an  hour  or  so  the  trout  became  less  abun- 
dant, and  with  nearly  a  hundred  of  the  black  sprites 
in  our  baskets  we  turned  back.  Here  and  there  I 
saw  the  abandoned  nests  of  the  pigeons,  sometimes 
half  a  dozen  in  one  tree.  In  a  yellow  birch  which 
the  floods  had  uprooted,  a  number  of  nests  were 
still  in  place,  little  shelves  or  platforms  of  twigs 
loosely  arranged,  and  affording  little  or  no  protec- 
tion to  the  eggs  or  the  young  birds  against  incle- 
ment weather. 

Before  we  had  reached  our  companions  the  rain 
set  in  again  and  forced  us  to  take  shelter  under  a 
balsam.  When  it  slackened  we  moved  on  and  soon 
came  up  with  Aaron,  who  had  caught  his  first  trout, 
and,  considerably  drenched,  was  making  his  way 
toward  camp,  which  one  of  the  party  had  gone  for- 
ward to  build.  After  traveling  less  than  a  mile,  we 
saw  a  smoke  struggling  up  through  the  dripping 
trees,  and  in  a  few  moments  were  all  standing 
round  a  blazing  fire.  But  the  rain  now  commenced 
again,  and  fairly  poured  down  through  the  trees, 
rendering  the  prospect  of  cooking  and  eating  our 
supper  there  in  the  woods,  and  of  passing  the  night 
on  the  ground  without  tent  or  cover  of  any  kind, 
rather  disheartening.  We  had  been  told  of  a  bark 
197 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

shanty  a  couple  of  miles  farther  down  the  creek, 
and  thitherward  we  speedily  took  up  our  line  of 
march.  When  we  were  on  the  point  of  discontinu- 
ing the  search,  thinking  we  had  been  misinformed 
or  had  passed  it  by,  we  came  in  sight  of  a  bark- 
peeling,  in  the  midst  of  which  a  small  log  house 
lifted  its  naked  rafters  toward  the  now  breaking 
sky.  It  had  neither  floor  nor  roof,  and  was  less  in- 
viting on  first  sight  than  the  open  woods.  But  a 
board  partition  was  still  standing,  out  of  which  we 
built  a  rude  porch  on  the  east  side  of  the  house, 
large  enough  for  us  all  to  sleep  under  if  well  packed, 
and  eat  under  if  we  stood  up.  There  was  plenty 
of  well-seasoned  timber  lying  about,  and  a  fire  was 
soon  burning  in  front  of  our  quarters  that  made 
the  scene  social  and  picturesque,  especially  when  the 
frying-pans  were  brought  into  requisition,  and  the 
coffee,  in  charge  of  Aaron,  who  was  an  artist  in 
this  line,  mingled  its  aroma  with  the  wild-wood 
air.  At  dusk  a  balsam  was  felled,  and  the  tips  of 
the  branches  used  to  make  a  bed,  which  was  more 
fragrant  than  soft;  hemlock  is  better,  because  its 
needles  are  finer  and  its  branches  more  elastic. 

There  was  a  spirt  or  two  of  rain  during  the  night, 
but  not  enough  to  find  out  the  leaks  in  our  roof.  It 
took  the  shower  or  series  of  showers  of  the  next  day 
to  do  that.  They  commenced  about  two  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon.  The  forenoon  had  been  fine,  and  we 
had  brought  into  camp  nearly  three  hundred  trout; 
198 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

but  before  they  were  half  dressed,  or  the  first  pan- 
fuls  fried,  the  rain  set  in.  First  came  short,  sharp 
dashes,  then  a  gleam  of  treacherous  sunshine,  fol- 
lowed by  more  and  heavier  dashes.  The  wind  was 
in  the  southwest,  and  to  rain  seemed  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world.  From  fitful  dashes  to  a  steady 
pour  the  transition  was  natural.  We  stood  huddled 
together,  stark  and  grim,  under  our  cover,  like  hens 
under  a  cart.  The  fire  fought  bravely  for  a  time, 
and  retaliated  with  sparks  and  spiteful  tongues  of 
flame;  but  gradually  its  spirit  was  broken,  only  a 
heavy  body  of  coal  and  half-consumed  logs  in  the 
centre  holding  out  against  all  odds.  The  simmer- 
ing fish  were  soon  floating  about  in  a  yellow  liquid 
that  did  not  look  in  the  least  appetizing.  Point  after 
point  gave  way  in  our  cover,  till  standing  between 
the  drops  was  no  longer  possible.  The  water  coursed 
down  the  underside  of  the  boards,  and  dripped  in 
our  necks  and  formed  puddles  on  our  hat-brims. 
We  shifted  our  guns  and  traps  and  viands,  till  there 
was  no  longer  any  choice  of  position,  when  the  loaves 
and  the  fishes,  the  salt  and  the  sugar,  the  pork  and 
the  butter,  shared  the  same  watery  fate.  The  fire 
was  gasping  its  last.  Little  rivulets  coursed  about 
it,  and  bore  away  the  quenched  but  steaming  coals 
on  their  bosoms.  The  spring  run  in  the  rear  of  our 
camp  swelled  so  rapidly  that  part  of  the  trout  that 
had  been  hastily  left  lying  on  its  banks  again  found 
themselves  quite  at  home.  For  over  two  hours  the 
199 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

floods  came  down.  About  four  o'clock  Orville,  who 
had  not  yet  come  from  the  day's  sport,  appeared. 
To  say  Orville  was  wet  is  not  much;  he  was  better 
than  that,  —  he  had  been  washed  and  rinsed  in  at 
least  half  a  dozen  waters,  and  the  trout  that  he  bore 
dangling  at  the  end  of  a  string  hardly  knew  that 
they  had  been  out  of  their  proper  element. 

But  he  brought  welcome  news.  He  had  been 
two  or  three  miles  down  the  creek,  and  had  seen  a 
log  building,  —  whether  house  or  stable  he  did  not 
know,  but  it  had  the  appearance  of  having  a  good 
roof,  which  was  inducement  enough  for  us  instantly 
to  leave  our  present  quarters.  Our  course  lay  along 
an  old  wood-road,  and  much  of  the  tune  we  were 
to  our  knees  in  water.  The  woods  were  literally 
flooded  everywhere.  Every  little  rill  and  springlet 
ran  like  a  mill-tail,  while  the  main  stream  rushed 
and  roared,  foaming,  leaping,  lashing,  its  volume 
increased  fifty-fold.  The  water  was  not  roily,  but 
of  a  rich  coffee-color,  from  the  leachings  of  the 
woods.  No  more  trout  for  the  next  three  days !  we 
thought,  as  we  looked  upon  the  rampant  stream. 

After  we  had  labored  and  floundered  along  for 
about  an  hour,  the  road  turned  to  the  left,  and  in  a 
little  stumpy  clearing  near  the  creek  a  gable  uprose 
on  our  view.  It  did  not  prove  to  be  just  such  a 
place  as  poets  love  to  contemplate.  It  required  a 
greater  effort  of  the  imagination  than  any  of  us 
were  then  capable  of  to  believe  it  had  ever  been  a 
200 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

favorite  resort  of  wood-nymphs  or  sylvan  deities. 
It  savored  rather  of  the  equine  and  the  bovine. 
The  bark-men  had  kept  their  teams  there,  horses 
on  the  one  side  and  oxen  on  the  other,  and  no  Her- 
cules had  ever  done  duty  in  cleansing  the  stables. 
But  there  was  a  dry  loft  overhead  with  some  straw, 
where  we  might  get  some  sleep,  in  spite  of  the  rain 
and  the  midges;  a  double  layer  of  boards,  standing 
at  a  very  acute  angle,  would  keep  off  the  former, 
while  the  mingled  refuse  hay  and  muck  beneath 
would  nurse  a  smoke  that  would  prove  a  thorough 
protection  against  the  latter.  And  then,  when  Jim, 
the  two-handed,  mounting  the  trunk  of  a  prostrate 
maple  near  by,  had  severed  it  thrice  with  easy  and 
familiar  stroke,  and,  rolling  the  logs  in  front  of  the 
shanty,  had  kindled  a  fire,  which,  getting  the  better 
of  the  dampness,  soon  cast  a  bright  glow  over  all, 
shedding  warmth  and  light  even  into  the  dingy 
stable,  I  consented  to  unsling  my  knapsack  and 
accept  the  situation.  The  rain  had  ceased,  and  the 
sun  shone  out  behind  the  woods.  We  had  trout 
sufficient  for  present  needs;  and  after  my  first  meal 
in  an  ox -stall,  I  strolled  out  on  the  rude  log  bridge 
to  watch  the  angry  Neversink  rush  by.  Its  waters 
fell  quite  as  rapidly  as  they  rose,  and  before  sun- 
down it  looked  as  if  we  might  have  fishing  again 
on  the  morrow.  We  had  better  sleep  that  night 
than  either  night  before,  though  there  were  two 
disturbing  causes,  —  the  smoke  in  the  early  part  of 
201 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

it,  and  the  cold  in  the  latter.  The  "  no-see-ems " 
left  in  disgust ;  and,  though  disgusted  myself,  I 
swallowed  the  smoke  as  best  I  could,  and  hugged 
my  pallet  of  straw  the  closer.  But  the  day  dawned 
bright,  and  a  plunge  in  the  Neversink  set  me  all 
right  again.  The  creek,  to  our  surprise  and  gratifi- 
cation, was  only  a  little  higher  than  before  the  rain, 
and  some  of  the  finest  trout  we  had  yet  seen  we 
caught  that  morning  near  camp. 

We  tarried  yet  another  day  and  night  at  the  old 
stable,  but  taking  our  meals  outside  squatted  on  the 
ground,  which  had  now  become  quite  dry.  Part  of 
the  day  I  spent  strolling  about  the  woods,  looking 
up  old  acquaintances  among  the  birds,  and,  as 
always,  half  expectant  of  making  some  new  ones. 
Curiously  enough,  the  most  abundant  species  were 
among  those  I  had  found  rare  in  most  other  locali- 
ties, namely,  the  small  water-wagtail,  the  mourning 
ground  warbler,  and  the  yellow-bellied  woodpecker. 
The  latter  seems  to  be  the  prevailing  woodpecker 
through  the  woods  of  this  region. 

That  night  the  midges,  those  motes  that  sting, 
held  high  carnival.  We  learned  afterward,  in  the 
settlement  below  and  from  the  barkpeelers,  that  it 
was  the  worst  night  ever  experienced  in  that  valley. 
We  had  done  no  fishing  during  the  day,  but  had 
anticipated  some  fine  sport  about  sundown.  Ac- 
cordingly Aaron  and  I  started  off  between  six  and 
seven  o'clock,  one  going  upstream  and  the  other 
202 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

down.  The  scene  was  charming.  The  sun  shot  up 
great  spokes  of  light  from  behind  the  woods,  and 
beauty,  like  a  presence,  pervaded  the  atmosphere. 
But  torment,  multiplied  as  the  sands  of  the  sea- 
shore, lurked  in  every  tangle  and  thicket.  In  a 
thoughtless  moment  I  removed  my  shoes  and  socks, 
and  waded  in  the  water  to  secure  a  fine  trout  that 
had  accidentally  slipped  from  my  string  and  was 
helplessly  floating  with  the  current.  This  caused 
some  delay  and  gave  the  gnats  time  to  accumulate. 
Before  I  had  got  one  foot  half  dressed  I  was  en- 
veloped in  a  black  mist  that  settled  upon  my  hands 
and  neck  and  face,  filling  my  ears  with  infinitesimal 
pipings  and  covering  my  flesh  with  infinitesimal 
bitings.  I  thought  I  should  have  to  flee  to  the 
friendly  fumes  of  the  old  stable,  with  "  one  stocking 
off  and  one  stocking  on; "  but  I  got  my  shoe  on  at 
last,  though  not  without  many  amusing  interrup- 
tions and  digressions. 

In  a  few  moments  after  this  adventure  I  was  in 
rapid  retreat  toward  camp.  Just  as  I  reached  the 
path  leading  from  the  shanty  to  the  creek,  my  com- 
panion in  the  same  ignoble  flight  reached  it  also, 
his  hat  broken  and  rumpled,  and  his  sanguine 
countenance  looking  more  sanguinary  than  I  had 
ever  before  seen  it,  and  his  speech,  also,  in  the 
highest  degree  inflammatory.  His  face  and  forehead 
were  as  blotched  and  swollen  as  if  he  had  just  run 
his  head  into  a  hornets'  nest,  and  his  manner  as 
203 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

precipitate  as  if  the  whole  swarm  was  still  at  his 
back. 

No  smoke  or  smudge  which  we  ourselves  could 
endure  was  sufficient  in  the  earlier  part  of  that  even- 
ing to  prevent  serious  annoyance  from  the  same 
cause;  but  later  a  respite  was  granted  us. 

About  ten  o'clock,  as  we  stood  round  our  camp- 
fire,  we  were  startled  by  a  brief  but  striking  display 
of  the  aurora  borealis.  My  imagination  had  already 
been  excited  by  talk  of  legends  and  of  weird  shapes 
and  appearances,  and  when,  on  looking  up  toward 
the  sky,  I  saw  those  pale,  phantasmal  waves  of 
magnetic  light  chasing  each  other  across  the  little 
opening  above  our  heads,  and  at  first  sight  seem- 
ing barely  to  clear  the  treetops,  I  was  as  vividly 
impressed  as  if  I  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  verita- 
ble spectre  of  the  Neversink.  The  sky  shook  and 
trembled  like  a  great  white  curtain. 

After  we  had  climbed  to  our  loft  and  had  lain 
down  to  sleep,  another  adventure  befell  us.  This 
tune  a  new  and  uninviting  customer  appeared  upon 
the  scene,  the  genius  loci  of  the  old  stable,  namely, 
the  "  fretful  porcupine."  We  had  seen  the  marks 
and  work  of  these  animals  about  the  shanty,  and 
had  been  careful  each  night  to  hang  our  traps, 
guns,  etc.,  beyond  their  reach,  but  of  the  prickly 
night-walker  himself  we  feared  we  should  not  get 
a  view. 

We  had  lain  down  some  half  hour,  and  I  was  just 
204 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

en  the  threshold  of  sleep,  ready,  as  it  were,  to  pass 
through  the  open  door  into  the  land  of  dreams,  when 
I  heard  outside  somewhere  that  curious  sound,  —  a 
sound  which  I  had  heard  every  night  I  spent  in 
these  woods,  not  only  on  this  but  on  former  expe- 
ditions, and  which  I  had  settled  in  my  mind  as 
proceeding  from  the  porcupine,  since  I  knew  the 
sounds  our  other  common  animals  were  likely  to 
make,  —  a  sound  that  might  be  either  a  gnawing  on 
some  hard,  dry  substance,  or  a  grating  of  teeth,  or 
a  shrill  grunting. 

Orville  heard  it  also,  and,  raising  up  on  his  elbow, 
asked,  "  What  is  that  ? " 

"  What  the  hunters  call  a  '  porcupig,' "  said  I. 

"Sure?" 

"  Entirely  so." 

"  Why  does  he  make  that  noise  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  way  he  has  of  cursing  our  fire,"  I  replied. 
"  I  heard  him  last  night  also." 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  he  is  ? "  inquired  my 
companion,  showing  a  disposition  to  look  him  up. 

"  Not  far  off,  perhaps  fifteen  or  twenty  yards  from 
our  fire,  where  the  shadows  begin  to  deepen." 

Orville  slipped  into  his  trousers,  felt  for  my  gun, 
and  in  a  moment  had  disappeared  down  through  the 
scuttle  hole.  I  had  no  disposition  to  follow  him, 
but  was  rather  annoyed  than  otherwise  at  the  dis- 
turbance. Getting  the  direction  of  the  sound,  he 
went  picking  his  way  over  the  rough,  uneven  ground, 
205 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

and,  when  he  got  where  the  light  failed  him,  pok- 
ing every  doubtful  object  with  the  end  of  his  gun. 
Presently  he  poked  a  light  grayish  object,  like  a 
large  round  stone,  which  surprised  him  by  moving 
off.  On  this  hint  he  fired,  making  an  incurable 
wound  in  the  "  porcupig,"  which,  nevertheless,  tried 
harder  than  ever  to  escape.  I  lay  listening,  when, 
close  on  the  heels  of  the  report  of  the  gun,  came  ex- 
cited shouts  for  a  revolver.  Snatching  up  my  Smith 
and  Wesson,  I  hastened,  shoeless  and  hatless,  to  the 
scene  of  action,  wondering  what  was  up.  I  found 
my  companion  struggling  to  detain,  with  the  end  of 
the  gun,  an  uncertain  object  that  was  trying  to  crawl 
off  into  the  darkness.  "Look  out!"  said  Orville, 
as  he  saw  my  bare  feet,  "  the  quills  are  lying  thick 
around  here." 

And  so  they  were;  he  had  blown  or  beaten  them 
nearly  all  off  the  poor  creature's  back,  and  was  in  a 
fair  way  completely  to  disable  my  gun,  the  ramrod 
of  which  was  already  broken  and  splintered  club- 
bing his  victim.  But  a  couple  of  shots  from  the 
revolver,  sighted  by  a  lighted  match,  at  the  head 
of  the  animal,  quickly  settled  him. 

He  proved  to  be  an  unusually  large  Canada  por- 
cupine,—  an  old  patriarch,  gray  and  venerable,  with 
spines  three  inches  long,  and  weighing,  I  should  say, 
twenty  pounds.  The  build  of  this  animal  is  much 
like  that  of  the  woodchuck,  that  is,  heavy  and 
pouchy.  The  nose  is  blunter  than  that  of  the  wood- 
206 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

chuck,  the  limbs  stronger,  and  the  tail  broader  and 
heavier.  Indeed,  the  latter  appendage  is  quite  club- 
like,  and  the  animal  can,  no  doubt,  deal  a  smart  blow 
with  it.  An  old  hunter  with  whom  I  talked 
thought  it  aided  them  in  climbing.  They  are  in- 
veterate gnawers,  and  spend  much  of  their  time  in 
trees  gnawing  the  bark.  In  winter  one  will  take 
up  its  abode  in  a  hemlock,  and  continue  there  till 
the  tree  is  quite  denuded.  The  carcass  emitted  a 
peculiar,  offensive  odor,  and,  though  very  fat,  was 
not  in  the  least  inviting  as  game.  If  it  is  part  of 
the  economy  of  nature  for  one  animal  to  prey  upon 
some  other  beneath  it,  then  the  poor  devil  has  in- 
deed a  mouthful  that  makes  a  meal  off  the  porcu- 
pine. Panthers  and  lynxes  have  essayed  it,  but 
have  invariably  left  off  at  the  first  course,  and  have 
afterwards  been  found  dead,  or  nearly  so,  with  their 
heads  puffed  up  like  a  pincushion,  and  the  quills 
protruding  on  all  sides.  A  dog  that  understands  the 
business  will  manoeuvre  round  the  porcupine  till  he 
gets  an  opportunity  to  throw  it  over  on  its  back, 
when  he  fastens  on  its  quilless  underbody.  Aaron 
was  puzzled  to  know  how  long-parted  friends  could 
embrace,  when  it  was  suggested  that  the  quills  could 
be  depressed  or  elevated  at  pleasure. 

The  next  morning  boded  rain ;  but  we  had  become 

thoroughly  sated  with  the  delights  of  our  present 

quarters,  outside  and  in,  and  packed  up  our  traps  to 

leave.   Before  we  had  reached  the  clearing,  three 

207 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

miles  below,  the  rain  set  in,  keeping  up  a  lazy, 
monotonous  drizzle  till  the  afternoon. 

The  clearing  was  quite  a  recent  one,  made  mostly 
by  barkpeelers,  who  followed  their  calling  in  the 
mountains  round  about  in  summer,  and  worked  in 
their  shops  making  shingle  in  winter.  The  Biscuit 
Brook  came  in  here  from  the  west,  —  a  fine,  rapid 
trout  stream  six  or  eight  miles  in  length,  with  plenty 
of  deer  hi  the  mountains  about  its  head.  On  its 
banks  we  found  the  house  of  an  old  woodman,  to 
whom  we  had  been  directed  for  information  about 
the  section  we  proposed  to  traverse. 

"  Is  the  way  very  difficult,"  we  inquired,  "  across 
from  the  Neversink  into  the  head  of  the  Beaver- 
kill?" 

"  Not  to  me;  I  could  go  it  the  darkest  night  ever 
was.  And  I  can  direct  you  so  you  can  find  the  way 
without  any  trouble.  You  go  down  the  Neversink 
about  a  mile,  when  you  come  to  Highfall  Brook,  the 
first  stream  that  comes  down  on  the  right.  Fol- 
low up  it  to  Jim  Reed's  shanty,  about  three  miles. 
Then  cross  the  stream,  and  on  the  left  bank,  pretty 
well  up  on  the  side  of  the  mountain,  you  will  find  a 
wood-road,  which  was  made  by  a  fellow  below  here 
who  stole  some  ash  logs  off  the  top  of  the  ridge  last 
winter  and  drew  them  out  on  the  snow.  When  the 
road  first  begins  to  tilt  over  the  mountain,  strike 
down  to  your  left,  and  you  can  reach  the  Beaverkill 
before  sundown." 

208 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

As  it  was  then  after  two  o'clock,  and  as  the  dis- 
tance was  six  or  eight  of  these  terrible  hunters'  miles, 
we  concluded  to  take  a  whole  day  to  it,  and  wait 
till  next  morning.  The  Beaverkill  flowed  west,  the 
Neversink  south,  and  I  had  a  mortal  dread  of  get- 
ting entangled  amid  the  mountains  and  valleys  that 
lie  in  either  angle. 

Besides,  I  was  glad  of  another  and  final  oppor- 
tunity to  pay  my  respects  to  the  finny  tribes  of  the 
Neversink.  At  this  point  it  was  one  of  the  finest 
trout  streams  I  had  ever  beheld.  It  was  so  spar- 
kling, its  bed  so  free  from  sediment  or  impurities  of 
any  kind,  that  it  had  a  new  look,  as  if  it  had  just 
come  from  the  hand  of  its  Creator.  I  tramped  along 
its  margin  upward  of  a  mile  that  afternoon,  part  of 
the  time  wading  to  my  knees,  and  casting  my  hook, 
baited  only  with  a  trout's  fin,  to  the  opposite  bank. 
Trout  are  real  cannibals,  and  make  no  bones,  and 
break  none  either,  in  lunching  on  each  other.  A 
friend  of  mine  had  several  in  his  spring,  when  one 
day  a  large  female  trout  gulped  down  one  of  her 
male  friends,  nearly  one  third  her  own  size,  and  went 
around  for  two  days  with  the  tail  of  her  liege  lord 
protruding  from  her  mouth!  A  fish's  eye  will  do 
for  bait,  though  the  anal  fin  is  better.  One  of  the 
natives  here  told  me  that  when  he  wished  to  catch 
large  trout  (and  I  judged  he  never  fished  for  any 
other,  —  I  never  do),  he  used  for  bait  the  bullhead, 
or  dart,  a  little  fish  an  inch  and  a  half  or  two  inches 
209 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

long,  that  rests  on  the  pebbles  near  shore  and  darts 
quickly,  when  disturbed,  from  point  to  point.  "  Put 
that  on  your  hook,"  said  he,  "  and  if  there  is  a  big 
fish  in  the  creek,  he  is  bound  to  have  it."  But  the 
darts  were  not  easily  found  ;  the  big  fish,  I  con- 
cluded, had  cleaned  them  all  out;  and,  then,  it  was 
easy  enough  to  supply  our  wants  with  a  fin. 

Declining  the  hospitable  offers  of  the  settlers,  we 
spread  our  blankets  that  night  in  a  dilapidated  shin- 
gle-shop on  the  banks  of  the  Biscuit  Brook,  first 
flooring  the  damp  ground  with  the  new  shingle  that 
lay  piled  in  one  corner.  The  place  had  a  great- 
throated  chimney  with  a  tremendous  expanse  of  fire- 
place within,  that  cried  "More!"  at  every  morsel 
of  wood  we  gave  it. 

But  I  must  hasten  over  this  part  of  the  ground, 
nor  let  the  delicious  flavor  of  the  milk  we  had  that 
morning  for  breakfast,  and  that  was  so  delectable 
after  four  days  of  fish,  linger  on  my  tongue;  nor  yet 
tarry  to  set  down  the  talk  of  that  honest,  weather- 
worn passer-by  who  paused  before  our  door,  and 
every  moment  on  the  point  of  resuming  his  way, 
yet  stood  for  an  hour  and  recited  his  adventures 
hunting  deer  and  bears  on  these  mountains.  Hav- 
ing replenished  our  stock  of  bread  and  salt  pork  at 
the  house  of  one  of  the  settlers,  midday  found  us  at 
Reed's  shanty,  —  one  of  those  temporary  structures 
erected  by  the  bark  jobber  to  lodge  and  board  his 
"  hands  "  near  their  work.  Jim  not  being  at  home, 
210 


A  SETTLER'S  HOUSE 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

we  could  gain  no  information  from  the  "women 
folks"  about  the  way,  nor  from  the  men  who  had 
just  come  in  to  dinner;  so  we  pushed  on,  as  near  as 
we  could,  according  to  the  instructions  we  had  pre- 
viously received.  Crossing  the  creek,  we  forced  our 
way  up  the  side  of  the  mountain,  through  a  perfect 
cheval-de-frise  of  fallen  and  peeled  hemlocks,  and, 
entering  the  dense  woods  above,  began  to  look  anx- 
iously about  for  the  wood-road.  My  companions 
at  first  could  see  no  trace  of  it;  but  knowing  that  a 
casual  wood-road  cut  in  winter,  when  there  was  likely 
to  be  two  or  three  feet  of  snow  on  the  ground,  would 
present  only  the  slightest  indications  to  the  eye  in 
summer,  I  looked  a  little  closer,  and  could  make  out 
a  mark  or  two  here  and  there.  The  larger  trees  had 
been  avoided,  and  the  axe  used  only  on  the  small 
saplings  and  underbrush,  which  had  been  lopped  off 
a  couple  of  feet  from  the  ground.  By  being  con- 
stantly on  the  alert,  we  followed  it  till  near  the  top 
of  the  mountain;  but,  when  looking  to  see  it  "  tilt" 
over  the  other  side,  it  disappeared  altogether.  Some 
stumps  of  the  black  cherry  were  found,  and  a  solitary 
pair  of  snow-shoes  was  hanging  high  and  dry  on  a 
branch,  but  no  further  trace  of  human  hands  could 
we  see.  While  we  were  resting  here  a  couple  of  her- 
mit thrushes,  one  of  them  with  some  sad  defect  in 
his  vocal  powers  which  barred  him  from  uttering 
more  than  a  few  notes  of  his  song,  gave  voice  to  the 
solitude  of  the  place.  This  was  the  second  instance 
211 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

in  which  I  have  observed  a  song-bird  with  appar- 
ently some  organic  defect  in  its  instrument.  The 
other  case  was  that  of  a  bobolink,  which,  hover  in 
mid-air  and  inflate  its  throat  as  it  might,  could  only 
force  out  a  few  incoherent  notes.  But  the  bird  in 
each  case  presented  this  striking  contrast  to  human 
examples  of  the  kind,  that  it  was  apparently  just  as 
proud  of  itself,  and  just  as  well  satisfied  with  its 
performance,  as  were  its  more  successful  rivals. 

After  deliberating  some  time  over  a  pocket  com- 
pass which  I  carried,  we  decided  upon  our  course, 
and  held  on  to  the  west.  The  descent  was  very 
gradual.  Traces  of  bear  and  deer  were  noted  at 
different  points,  but  not  a  live  animal  was  seen. 

About  four  o'clock  we  reached  the  bank  of  a 
stream  flowing  west.  Hail  to  the  Beaverkill  !  and 
we  pushed  on  along  its  banks.  The  trout  were 
plenty,  and  rose  quickly  to  the  hook  ;  but  we  held 
on  our  way,  designing  to  go  into  camp  about  six 
o'clock.  Many  inviting  places,  first  on  one  bank, 
then  on  the  other,  made  us  linger,  till  finally  we 
reached  a  smooth,  dry  place  overshadowed  by  bal- 
sam and  hemlock,  where  the  creek  bent  around  a 
little  flat,  which  was  so  entirely  to  our  fancy  that  we 
unslung  our  knapsacks  at  once.  While  my  com- 
panions were  cutting  wood  and  making  other  pre- 
parations for  the  night,  it  fell  to  my  lot,  as  the 
most  successful  angler,  to  provide  the  trout  for  sup- 
per and  breakfast.  How  shall  I  describe  that  wild, 
212 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

beautiful  stream,  with  features  so  like  those  of  all 
other  mountain  streams  ?  And  yet,  as  I  saw  it  in 
the  deep  twilight  of  those  woods  on  that  June  after- 
noon, with  its  steady,  even  flow,  and  its  tranquil, 
many- voiced  murmur,  it  made  an  impression  upon 
my  mind  distinct  and  peculiar,  fraught  in  an  eminent 
degree  with  the  charm  of  seclusion  and  remoteness. 
The  solitude  was  perfect,  and  I  felt  that  strangeness 
and  insignificance  which  the  civilized  man  must 
always  feel  when  opposing  himself  to  such  a  vast 
scene  of  silence  and  wildness.  The  trout  were  quite 
black,  like  all  wood  trout,  and  took  the  bait  eagerly. 
I  followed  the  stream  till  the  deepening  shadows 
warned  me  to  turn  back.  As  I  neared  camp,  the 
fire  shone  far  through  the  trees,  dispelling  the  gath- 
ering gloom,  but  blinding  my  eyes  to  all  obstacles 
at  my  feet.  I  was  seriously  disturbed  on  arriving 
to  find  that  one  of  my  companions  had  cut  an  ugly 
gash  in  his  shin  with  the  axe  while  felling  a  tree. 
As  we  did  not  carry  a  fifth  wheel,  it  was  not  just 
the  time  or  place  to  have  any  of  our  members  crip- 
pled, and  I  had  bodings  of  evil.  But,  thanks  to  the 
healing  virtues  of  the  balsam  which  must  have  ad- 
hered to  the  blade  of  the  axe,  and  double  thanks  to 
the  court-plaster  with  which  Orville  had  supplied 
himself  before  leaving  home,  the  wounded  leg,  by 
being  favored  that  night  and  the  next  day,  gave  us 
little  trouble. 

That  night  we  had  our  first  fair  and  square  camp- 
213 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

ing  out,  —  that  is,  sleeping  on  the  ground  with  no 
shelter  over  us  but  the  trees,  —  and  it  was  in  many 
respects  the  pleasantest  night  we  spent  in  the  woods. 
The  weather  was  perfect  and  the  place  was  perfect, 
and  for  the  first  time  we  were  exempt  from  the 
midges  and  smoke;  and  then  we  appreciated  the 
clean  new  page  we  had  to  work  on.  Nothing  is  so 
acceptable  to  the  camper-out  as  a  pure  article  in  the 
way  of  woods  and  waters.  Any  admixture  of  human 
relics  mars  the  spirit  of  the  scene.  Yet  I  am  will- 
ing to  confess  that,  before  we  were  through  those 
woods,  the  marks  of  an  axe  in  a  tree  were  a  welcome 
sight.  On  resuming  our  march  next  day  we  followed 
the  right  bank  of  the  Beaverkill,  in  order  to  strike 
a  stream  which  flowed  in  from  the  north,  and  which 
was  the  outlet  of  Balsam  Lake,  the  objective  point 
of  that  day's  march.  The  distance  to  the  lake  from 
our  camp  could  not  have  been  over  six  or  seven 
miles ;  yet,  traveling  as  we  did,  without  path  or 
guide,  climbing  up  banks,  plunging  into  ravines, 
making  detours  around  swampy  places,  and  forcing 
our  way  through  woods  choked  up  with  much  fallen 
and  decayed  timber,  it  seemed  at  least  twice  that 
distance,  and  the  mid-afternoon  sun  was  shining 
when  we  emerged  into  what  is  called  the  "  Quaker 
Clearing,"  ground  that  I  had  been  over  nine  years 
before,  and  that  lies  about  two  miles  south  of  the 
lake.  From  this  point  we  had  a  well-worn  path 
that  led  us  up  a  sharp  rise  of  ground,  then  through 
214 


THE   BEAVERKILL 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

level  woods  till  we  saw  the  bright  gleam  of  the  water 
through  the  trees. 

I  am  always  struck,  on  approaching  these  little 
mountain  lakes,  with  the  extensive  preparation  that 
is  made  for  them  in  the  conformation  of  the  ground. 
I  am  thinking  of  a  depression,  or  natural  basin,  in 
the  side  of  the  mountain  or  on  its  top,  the  brink  of 
which  I  shall  reach  after  a  little  steep  climbing  ;  but 
instead  of  that,  after  I  have  accomplished  the  ascent, 
I  find  a  broad  sweep  of  level  or  gently  undulating 
woodland  that  brings  me  after  a  half  hour  or  so  to 
the  lake,  which  lies  in  this  vast  lap  like  a  drop  of 
water  in  the  palm  of  a  man's  hand. 

Balsam  Lake  was  oval-shaped,  scarcely  more  than 
half  a  mile  long  and  a  quarter  of  a  mile  wide,  but 
presented  a  charming  picture,  with  a  group  of  dark 
gray  hemlocks  filling  the  valley  about  its  head,  and 
the  mountains  rising  above  and  beyond.  We  found 
a  bough  house  in  good  repair,  also  a  dug-out  and 
paddle  and  several  floats  of  logs.  In  the  dug-out  I 
was  soon  creeping  along  the  shady  side  of  the  lake, 
where  the  trout  were  incessantly  jumping  for  a  spe- 
cies of  black  fly,  that,  sheltered  from  the  slight 
breeze,  were  dancing  in  swarms  just  above  the  sur- 
face of  the  water.  The  gnats  were  there  in  swarms 
also,  and  did  their  best  toward  balancing  the  ac- 
counts by  preying  upon  me  while  I  preyed  upon  the 
trout  which  preyed  upon  the  flies.  But  by  dint  of 
keeping  my  hands,  face,  and  neck  constantly  wet,  I 
215 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

am  convinced  that  the  balance  of  blood  was  on  my 
side.  The  trout  jumped  most  within  a  foot  or  two 
of  shore,  where  the  water  was  only  a  few  inches 
deep.  The  shallowness  of  the  water,  perhaps,  ac- 
counted for  the  inability  of  the  fish  to  do  more  than 
lift  their  heads  above  the  surface.  They  came  up 
mouths  wide  open,  and  dropped  back  again  in  the 
most  impotent  manner.  Where  there  is  any  depth 
of  water,  a  trout  will  jump  several  feet  into  the  air; 
and  where  there  is  a  solid,  unbroken  sheet  or  column, 
they  will  scale  falls  and  dams  fifteen  feet  high. 

We  had  the  very  cream  and  flower  of  our  trout- 
fishing  at  this  lake.  For  the  first  time  we  could  use 
the  fly  to  advantage;  and  then  the  contrast  between 
laborious  tramping  along  shore,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  sitting  in  one  end  of  a  dug-out  and  casting  your 
line  right  and  left  with  no  fear  of  entanglement  in 
brush  or  branch,  while  you  were  gently  propelled 
along,  on  the  other,  was  of  the  most  pleasing  char- 
acter. 

There  were  two  varieties  of  trout  in  the  lake,  — 
what  it  seems  proper  to  call  silver  trout  and  golden 
trout;  the  former  were  the  slimmer,  and  seemed  to 
keep  apart  from  the  latter.  Starting  from  the  out- 
let and  working  round  on  the  eastern  side  toward 
the  head,  we  invariably  caught  these  first.  They 
glanced  in  the  sun  like  bars  of  silver.  Their  sides 
and  bellies  were  indeed  as  white  as  new  silver.  As 
we  neared  the  head,  and  especially  as  we  came  near 
216 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

a  space  occupied  by  some  kind  of  watergrass  that 
grew  in  the  deeper  part  of  the  lake,  the  other  variety 
would  begin  to  take  the  hook,  their  bellies  a  bright 
gold  color,  which  became  a  deep  orange  on  their 
fins;  and  as  we  returned  to  the  place  of  departure 
with  the  bottom  of  the  boat  strewn  with  these  bright 
forms  intermingled,  it  was  a  sight  not  soon  to  be 
forgotten.  It  pleased  my  eye  so,  that  I  would  fain 
linger  over  them,  arranging  them  in  rows  and  study- 
ing the  various  hues  and  tints.  They  were  of  nearly 
a  uniform  size,  rarely  one  over  ten  or  under  eight 
inches  in  length,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  hues  of  all 
the  precious  metals  and  stones  were  reflected  from 
their  sides.  The  flesh  was  deep  salmon-color;  that 
of  brook  trout  is  generally  much  lighter.  Some 
hunters  and  fishers  from  the  valley  of  the  Mill  Brook, 
whom  we  met  here,  told  us  the  trout  were  much 
larger  in  the  lake,  though  far  less  numerous  than 
they  used  to  be.  Brook  trout  do  not  grow  large  till 
they  become  scarce.  It  is  only  in  streams  that  have 
been  long  and  much  fished  that  I  have  caught  them 
as  much  as  sixteen  inches  in  length. 

The  "  porcupigs  "  were  numerous  about  the  lake, 
and  not  at  all  shy.  One  night  the  heat  became  so 
intolerable  in  our  oven-shaped  bough  house  that  I 
was  obliged  to  withdraw  from  under  its  cover  and 
lie  down  a  little  to  one  side.  Just  at  daybreak,  as 
I  lay  rolled  in  my  blanket,  something  awoke  me. 
Lifting  up  my  head,  there  was  a  porcupine  with  his 
217 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

forepaws  on  my  hips.  He  was  apparently  as  much 
surprised  as  I  was;  and  to  my  inquiry  as  to  what  he 
at  that  moment  might  be  looking  for,  he  did  not 
pause  to  reply,  but  hitting  me  a  slap  with  his  tail 
which  left  three  or  four  quills  in  my  blanket,  he 
scampered  off  down  the  hill  into  the  brush. 

Being  an  observer  of  the  birds,  of  course  every 
curious  incident  connected  with  them  fell  under  my 
notice.  Hence,  as  we  stood  about  our  camp-fire  one 
afternoon  looking  out  over  the  lake,  I  was  the  only 
one  to  see  a  little  commotion  in  the  water,  half  hid- 
den by  the  near  branches,  as  of  some  tiny  swimmer 
struggling  to  reach  the  shore.  Rushing  to  its  rescue 
in  the  canoe,  I  found  a  yellow-rumped  warbler, 
quite  exhausted,  clinging  to  a  twig  that  hung  down 
into  the  water.  I  brought  the  drenched  and  help- 
less thing  to  camp,  and,  putting  it  into  a  basket, 
hung  it  up  to  dry.  An  hour  or  two  afterward  I  heard 
it  fluttering  in  its  prison,  and,  cautiously  lifting  the 
lid  to  get  a  better  glimpse  of  the  lucky  captive,  it 
darted  out  and  was  gone  in  a  twinkling.  How  came 
it  in  the  water  ?  That  was  my  wonder,  and  I  can 
only  guess  that  it  was  a  young  bird  that  had  never 
before  flown  over  a  pond  of  water,  and,  seeing  the 
clouds  and  blue  sky  so  perfect  down  there,  thought  it 
was  a  vast  opening  or  gateway  into  another  summer 
land,  perhaps  a  short  cut  to  the  tropics,  and  so  got 
itself  into  trouble.  How  my  eye  was  delighted  also 
with  the  redbird  that  alighted  for  a  moment  on  a  dry 
218 


SPECKLED   TROUT 

branch  above  the  lake,  just  where  a  ray  of  light 
from  the  setting  sun  fell  full  upon  it !  A  mere  crim- 
son point,  and  yet  how  it  offset  that  dark,  sombre 
background! 

I  have  thus  run  over  some  of  the  features  of  an 
ordinary  trouting  excursion  to  the  woods.  People  in- 
experienced in  such  matters,  sitting  in  their  rooms 
and  thinking  of  these  things,  of  all  the  poets  have 
sung  and  romancers  written,  are  apt  to  get  sadly 
taken  in  when  they  attempt  to  realize  their  dreams. 
They  expect  to  enter  a  sylvan  paradise  of  trout,  cool 
retreats,  laughing  brooks,  picturesque  views,  and 
balsamic  couches,  instead  of  which  they  find  hun- 
ger, rain,  smoke,  toil,  gnats,  mosquitoes,  dirt,  broken 
rest,  vulgar  guides,  and  salt  pork;  and  they  are  very 
apt  not  to  see  where  the  fun  comes  hi.  But  he  who 
goes  in  a  right  spirit  will  not  be  disappointed,  and 
will  find  the  taste  of  this  kind  of  life  better,  though 
bitterer,  than  the  writers  have  described. 


VIII 

A  BED  OF  BOUGHS 


VIII 
A  BED  OF  BOUGHS 

~¥1TTHEN  Aaron  came  again  to  camp  and  tramp 
T  T  with  me,  or,  as  he  wrote,  "  to  eat  locusts  and 
wild  honey  with  me  in  the  wilderness,"  it  was  past 
the  middle  of  August,  and  the  festival  of  the  season 
neared  its  close.  We  were  belated  guests,  but  per- 
haps all  the  more  eager  on  that  account,  especially 
as  the  country  was  suffering  from  a  terrible  drought, 
and  the  only  promise  of  anything  fresh  or  tonic  or 
cool  was  in  primitive  woods  and  mountain  passes. 
"  Now,  my  friend,"  said  I,  "  we  can  go  to  Canada, 
or  to  the  Maine  woods,  or  to  the  Adirondacks,  and 
thus  have  a  whole  loaf  and  a  big  loaf  of  this  bread 
which  you  know  as  well  as  I  will  have  heavy  streaks 
in  it,  and  will  not  be  uniformly  sweet ;  or  we  can  seek 
nearer  woods,  and  content  ourselves  with  one  week 
instead  of  four,  with  the  prospect  of  a  keen  relish  to 
the  last.  Four  sylvan  weeks  sound  well,  but  the  poe- 
try is  mainly  confined  to  the  first  one.  We  can  take 
another  slice  or  two  of  the  Catskills,  can  we  not, 
without  being  sated  with  kills  and  dividing  ridges  ?  " 
"  Anywhere,"  replied  Aaron,  "  so  that  we  have 
a  good  tramp  and  plenty  of  primitive  woods.  No 
223 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

doubt  we  should  find  good  browsing  on  Peakamoose, 
and  trout  enough  in  the  streams  at  its  base." 

So  without  further  ado  we  made  ready,  and  in 
due  time  found  ourselves,  with  our  pscks  on  our 
backs,  entering  upon  a  pass  in  the  mountains  that 
led  to  the  valley  of  the  Rondout. 

The  scenery  was  wild  and  desolate  in  the  extreme, 
the  mountains  on  either  hand  looking  as  if  they  had 
been  swept  by  a  tornado  of  stone.  Stone  avalanches 
hung  suspended  on  their  sides,  or  had  shot  down 
into  the  chasm  below.  It  was  a  kind  of  Alpine 
scenery,  where  crushed  and  broken  boulders  covered 
the  earth  instead  of  snow. 

In  the  depressions  in  the  mountains  the  rocky 
fragments  seemed  to  have  accumulated,  and  to  have 
formed  what  might  be  called  stone  glaciers  that 
were  creeping  slowly  down. 

Two  hours'  march  brought  us  into  heavy  timber 
where  the  stone  cataclysm  had  not  reached,  and  be- 
fore long  the  soft  voice  of  the  Rondout  was  heard  in 
the  gulf  below  us.  We  paused  at  a  spring  run,  and 
I  followed  it  a  few  yards  down  its  mountain  stair- 
way, carpeted  with  black  moss,  and  had  my  first 
glimpse  of  the  unknown  stream.  I  stood  upon 
rocks  and  looked  many  feet  down  into  a  still,  sunlit 
pool  and  saw  the  trout  disporting  themselves  in  the 
transparent  water,  and  I  was  ready  to  encamp  at 
once ;  but  my  companion,  who  had  not  been  tempted 
by  the  view,  insisted  upon  holding  to  our  original 


A   BED    OF   BOUGHS 

purpose,  which  was  to  go  farther  up  the  stream.  We 
passed  a  clearing  with  three  or  four  houses  and  a 
saw-mill.  The  dam  of  the  latter  was  filled  with  such 
clear  water  that  it  seemed  very  shallow,  and  not  ten 
or  twelve  feet  deep,  as  it  really  was.  The  fish  were 
as  conspicuous  as  if  they  had  been  in  a  pail. 

Two  miles  farther  up  we  suited  ourselves  and 
went  into  camp. 

If  there  ever  was  a  stream  cradled  in  the  rocks, 
detained  lovingly  by  them,  held  and  fondled  in  a 
rocky  lap  or  tossed  in  rocky  arms,  that  stream  is  the 
Rondout.  Its  course  for  several  miles  from  its  head 
is  over  the  stratified  rock,  and  into  this  it  has  worn 
a  channel  that  presents  most  striking  and  peculiar 
features.  Now  it  comes  silently  along  on  the  top 
of  the  rock,  spread  out  and  flowing  over  that  thick, 
dark  green  moss  that  is  found  only  in  the  coldest 
streams ;  then  drawn  into  a  narrow  canal  only  four 
or  five  feet  wide,  through  which  it  shoots,  black  and 
rigid,  to  be  presently  caught  in  a  deep  basin  with 
shelving,  overhanging  rocks,  beneath  which  the 
phcebe-bird  builds  in  security,  and  upon  which  the 
fisherman  stands  and  casts  his  twenty  or  thirty  feet 
of  line  without  fear  of  being  thwarted  by  the  brush; 
then  into  a  black,  well-like  pool,  ten  or  fifteen  feet 
deep,  with  a  smooth,  circular  wall  of  rock  on  one 
side  worn  by  the  water  through  long  ages;  or  else 
into  a  deep,  oblong  pocket,  into  which  and  out  of 
which  the  water  glides  without  a  ripple. 
225 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

The  surface  rock  is  a  coarse  sandstone  superin- 
cumbent upon  a  lighter-colored  conglomerate  that 
looks  like  Shawangunk  grits,  and  when  this  latter 
is  reached  by  the  water  it  seems  to  be  rapidly  dis- 
integrated by  it,  thus  forming  the  deep  excavations 
alluded  to. 

My  eyes  had  never  before  beheld  such  beauty  in 
a  mountain  stream.  The  water  was  almost  as  trans- 
parent as  the  air,  —  was,  indeed,  like  liquid  air ;  and 
as  it  lay  in  these  wells  and  pits  enveloped  in  shadow, 
or  lit  up  by  a  chance  ray  of  the  vertical  sun,  it  was 
a  perpetual  feast  to  the  eye,  —  so  cool,  so  deep,  so 
pure;  every  reach  and  pool  like  a  vast  spring.  You 
lay  down  and  drank  or  dipped  the  water  up  in  your 
cup,  and  found  it  just  the  right  degree  of  refreshing 
coldness.  One  is  never  prepared  for  the  clearness 
of  the  water  in  these  streams.  It  is  always  a  sur- 
prise. See  them  every  year  for  a  dozen  years,  and 
yet,  when  you  first  come  upon  one,  you  will  utter 
an  exclamation.  I  saw  nothing  like  it  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  nor  in  Canada.  Absolutely  without  stain  or 
hint  of  impurity,  it  seems  to  magnify  like  a  lens,  so 
that  the  bed  of  the  stream  and  the  fish  in  it  appear 
deceptively  near.  It  is  rare  to  find  even  a  trout 
stream  that  is  not  a  little  "  off  color,"  as  they  say  of 
diamonds,  but  the  waters  in  the  section  of  which  I 
am  writing  have  the  genuine  ray;  it  is  the  undimmed 
and  untarnished  diamond. 

If  I  were  a  trout,  I  should  ascend  every  stream 
226 


A   BED    OF   BOUGHS 

till  I  found  the  Rondout.  It  is  the  ideal  brook. 
What  homes  these  fish  have,  what  retreats  under 
the  rocks,  what  paved  or  flagged  courts  and  areas, 
what  crystal  depths  where  no  net  or  snare  can  reach 
them!  —  no  mud,  no  sediment,  but  here  and  there 
in  the  clefts  and  seams  of  the  rock  patches  of  white 
gravel,  —  spawning-beds  ready-made. 

The  finishing  touch  is  given  by  the  moss  with 
which  the  rock  is  everywhere  carpeted.  Even  in 
the  narrow  grooves  or  channels  where  the  water  runs 
the  swiftest,  the  green  lining  is  unbroken.  It  sweeps 
down  under  the  stream  and  up  again  on  the  other 
side,  like  some  firmly  woven  texture.  It  softens 
every  outline  and  cushions  every  stone.  At  a  cer- 
tain depth  in  the  great  basins  and  wells  it  of  course 
ceases,  and  only  the  smooth-swept  flagging  of  the 
place-rock  is  visible. 

The  trees  are  kept  well  back  from  the  margin  of 
the  stream  by  the  want  of  soil,  and  the  large  ones 
unite  their  branches  far  above  it,  thus  forming  a 
high  winding  gallery,  along  which  the  fisherman 
passes  and  makes  his  long  casts  with  scarcely  an 
interruption  from  branch  or  twig.  In  a  few  places 
he  makes  no  cast,  but  sees  from  his  rocky  perch  the 
water  twenty  feet  below  him,  and  drops  his  hook 
into  it  as  into  a  well. 

We  made  camp  at  a  bend  in  the  creek  where 
there  was  a  large  surface  of  mossy  rock  uncovered 
by  the  shrunken  stream,  —  a  clean,  free  space  left 
227 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

for  us  in  the  wilderness  that  was  faultless  as  a  kitchen 
and  dining-room,  and  a  marvel  of  beauty  as  a  loun- 
ging-room,  or  an  open  court,  or  what  you  will.  An 
obsolete  wood  or  bark  road  conducted  us  to  it, 
and  disappeared  up  the  hill  in  the  woods  beyond. 
A  loose  boulder  lay  in  the  middle,  and  on  the 
edge  next  the  stream  were  three  or  four  large  nat- 
ural wash-basins  scooped  out  of  the  rock,  and  ever 
filled  ready  for  use.  Our  lair  we  carved  out  of  the 
thick  brush  under  a  large  birch  on  the  bank.  Here 
we  planted  our  flag  of  smoke  and  feathered  our 
nest  with  balsam  and  hemlock  boughs  and  ferns, 
and  laughed  at  your  four  walls  and  pillows  of 
down. 

Wherever  one  encamps  in  the  woods,  there  is 
home,  and  every  object  and  feature  about  the  place 
take  on  a  new  interest  and  assume  a  near  and 
friendly  relation  to  one. 

We  were  at  the  head  of  the  best  fishing.  There 
was  an  old  bark-clearing  not  far  off  which  afforded 
us  a  daily  dessert  of  most  delicious  blackberries,  — • 
an  important  item  in  the  woods,  —  and  then  all  the 
features  of  the  place  —  a  sort  of  cave  above  ground 
• — were  of  the  right  kind. 

There  was  not  a  mosquito,  or  gnat,  or  other  pest 
in  the  woods,  the  cool  nights  having  already  cut 
them  off.  The  trout  were  sufficiently  abundant,  and 
afforded  us  a  few  hours'  sport  daily  to  supply  our 
wants.  The  only  drawback  was,  that  they  were  out 
228 


A   BED    OF   BOUGHS 

of  season,  and  only  palatable  to  a  woodman's  keen 
appetite.  What  is  this  about  trout  spawning  in 
October  and  November,  and  in  some  cases  not  till 
March  ?  These  trout  had  all  spawned  in  August, 
every  one  of  them.  The  coldness  and  purity  of  the 
water  evidently  made  them  that  much  earlier.  The 
game  laws  of  the  State  protect  the  fish  after  Septem- 
ber 1,  proceeding  upon  the  theory  that  its  spawning 
season  is  later  than  that, — as  it  is  in  many  cases, 
but  not  in  all,  as  we  found  out. 

The  fish  are  small  in  these  streams,  seldom  weigh- 
ing over  a  few  ounces.  Occasionally  a  large  one  is 
seen  of  a  pound  or  pound  and  a  half  weight.  I  re- 
member one  such,  as  black  as  night,  that  ran  under 
a  black  rock.  But  I  remember  much  more  dis- 
tinctly a  still  larger  one  that  I  caught  and  lost  one 
eventful  day. 

I  had  him  on  my  hook  ten  minutes,  and  actually 
got  my  thumb  in  his  mouth,  and  yet  he  escaped. 

It  was  only  the  over-eagerness  of  the  sportsman. 
I  imagined  I  could  hold  him  by  the  teeth. 

The  place  where  I  struck  him  was  a  deep  well- 
hole,  and  I  was  perched  upon  a  log  that  spanned 
it  ten  or  twelve  feet  above  the  water.  The  situation 
was  all  the  more  interesting  because  I  saw  no  possi- 
ble way  to  land  my  fish.  I  could  not  lead  him  ashore, 
and  my  frail  tackle  could  not  be  trusted  to  lift  him 
sheer  from  that  pit  to  my  precarious  perch.  What 
should  I  do  ?  call  for  help  ?  but  no  help  was  near. 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

I  had  a  revolver  in  my  pocket  and  might  have  shot 
him  through  and  through,  but  that  novel  proceeding 
did  not  occur  to  me  until  it  was  too  late.  I  would 
have  taken  a  Sam  Patch  leap  into  the  water,  and 
have  wrestled  with  my  antagonist  in  his  own  ele- 
ment, but  I  knew  the  slack,  thus  sure  to  occur, 
would  probably  free  him;  so  I  peered  down  upon 
the  beautiful  creature  and  enjoyed  my  triumph  as 
far  as  it  went.  He  was  caught  very  lightly  through 
his  upper  jaw,  and  I  expected  every  struggle  and 
somersault  would  break  the  hold.  Presently  I  saw  a 
place  in  the  rocks  where  I  thought  it  possible,  with 
such  an  incentive,  to  get  down  within  reach  of  the 
water:  by  careful  manoeuvring  I  slipped  my  pole 
behind  me  and  got  hold  of  the  line,  which  I  cut  and 
wound  around  my  finger;  then  I  made  my  way  to- 
ward the  end  of  the  log  and  the  place  in  the  rocks, 
leading  my  fish  along  much  exhausted  on  the  top  of 
the  water.  By  an  effort  worthy  the  occasion  I  got 
down  within  reach  of  the  fish,  and,  as  I  have  already 
confessed,  thrust  my  thumb  into  his  mouth  and 
pinched  his  cheek;  he  made  a  spring  and  was  free 
from  my  hand  and  the  hook  at  the  same  time;  for  a 
moment  he  lay  panting  on  the  top  of  the  water,  then, 
recovering  himself  slowly,  made  his  way  down 
through  the  clear,  cruel  element  beyond  all  hope  of 
recapture.  My  blind  impulse  to  follow  and  try  to 
seize  him  was  very  strong,  but  I  kept  my  hold  and 
peered  and  peered  long  after  the  fish  was  lost  to 
230 


A   BED    OF   BOUGHS 

view,  then  looked  my  mortification  in  the  face  and 
laughed  a  bitter  laugh. 

"  But,  hang  it!  I  had  all  the  fun  of  catching  the 
fish,  and  only  miss  the  pleasure  of  eating  him,  which 
at  this  time  would  not  be  great." 

"  The  fun,  I  take  it,"  said  my  soldier,  "  is  in  tri- 
umphing, and  not  in  being  beaten  at  the  last." 

"Well,  have  it  so;  but  I  would  not  exchange 
those  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  with  that  trout  for  the 
tame  two  hours  you  have  spent  in  catching  that 
string  of  thirty.  To  see  a  big  fish  after  days  of 
small  fry  is  an  event;  to  have  a  jump  from  one  is  a 
glimpse  of  the  sportsman's  paradise ;  and  to  hook 
one,  and  actually  have  him  under  your  control  for 
ten  minutes,  —  why,  that  is  paradise  itself  as  long 
as  it  lasts." 

One  day  I  went  down  to  the  house  of  a  settler 
a  mile  below,  and  engaged  the  good  dame  to  make 
us  a  couple  of  loaves  of  bread,  and  in  the  evening 
we  went  down  after  them.  How  elastic  and  exhila- 
rating the  walk  was  through  the  cool,  transparent 
shadows !  The  sun  was  gilding  the  mountains,  and 
its  yellow  light  seemed  to  be  reflected  through  all 
the  woods.  At  one  point  we  looked  through  and 
along  a  valley  of  deep  shadow  upon  a  broad  sweep 
of  mountain  quite  near  and  densely  clothed  with 
woods,  flooded  from  base  to  summit  by  the  setting 
sun.  It  was  a  wild,  memorable  scene.  What  power 
and  effectiveness  in  Nature,  I  thought,  and  how 
231 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

rarely  an  artist  catches  her  touch!  Looking  down 
upon  or  squarely  into  a  mountain  covered  with  a 
heavy  growth  of  birch  and  maple,  and  shone  upon 
by  the  sun,  is  a  sight  peculiarly  agreeable  to  me. 
How  closely  the  swelling  umbrageous  heads  of  the 
trees  fit  together,  and  how  the  eye  revels  in  the 
flowing  and  easy  uniformity,  while  the  mind  feels 
the  ruggedness  and  terrible  power  beneath ! 

As  we  came  back,  the  light  yet  lingered  on  the 
top  of  Sh'de  Mountain. 

" '  The  last  that  parleys  with  the  setting  sun,' " 
said  I,  quoting  Wordsworth. 

"  That  line  is  almost  Shakespearean,"  said  my 
companion.  "  It  suggests  that  great  hand  at  least, 
though  it  has  not  the  grit  and  virility  of  the  more 
primitive  bard.  What  triumph  and  fresh  morning 
power  in  Shakespeare's  lines  that  will  occur  to  us 
at  sunrise  to-morrow !  — 

"  'And  jocund  day 

Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops.' 
Or  in  this  :  — 

" '  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 

Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovran  eye.' 
There  is  savage,  perennial  beauty  there,  the  quality 
that  Wordsworth  and  nearly  all  the  modern  poets 
lack." 

"  But  Wordsworth  is  the  poet  of  the  mountains," 
said  I,  "  and  of  lonely  peaks.    True,  he  does  not 
232 


STOPPING  FOR   FOOD  AT  THE   HOUSE  OF   A  SETTLER 


A   BED   OF   BOUGHS 

express  the  power  and  aboriginal  grace  there  is  in 
them,  nor  toy  with  them  and  pluck  them  up  by  the 
hair  of  their  heads,  as  Shakespeare  does.  There  is 
something  in  Peakamoose  yonder,  as  we  see  it  from 
this  point,  cutting  the  blue  vault  with  its  dark, 
serrated  edge,  not  in  the  bard  of  Grasmere ;  but  he 
expresses  the  feeling  of  loneliness  and  insignificance 
that  the  cultivated  man  has  in  the  presence  of 
mountains,  and  the  burden  of  solemn  emotion  they 
give  rise  to.  Then  there  is  something  much  more 
wild  and  merciless,  much  more  remote  from  human 
interests  and  ends,  in  our  long,  high,  wooded  ranges 
than  is  expressed  by  the  peaks  and  scarred  groups 
of  the  lake  country  of  Britain.  These  mountains  we 
behold  and  cross  are  not  picturesque, — they  are 
wild  and  inhuman  as  the  sea.  In  them  you  are  in 
a  maze,  in  a  weltering  world  of  woods;  you  can  see 
neither  the  earth  nor  the  sky,  but  a  confusion  of  the 
growth  and  decay  of  centuries,  and  must  traverse 
them  by  your  compass  or  your  science  of  woodcraft, 
—  a  rift  through  the  trees  giving  one  a  glimpse  of 
the  opposite  range  or  of  the  valley  beneath,  and 
he  is  more  at  sea  than  ever;  one  does  not  know  his 
own  farm  or  settlement  when  framed  in  these  moun- 
tain treetops;  all  look  alike  unfamiliar." 

Not  the  least  of  the  charm  of  camping  out  is  your 
camp-fire  at  night.  What  an  artist!  What  pictures 
are  boldly  thrown  or  faintly  outlined  upon  the  can- 
vas of  the  night!  Every  object,  every  attitude  of 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

your  companion  is  striking  and  memorable.  You 
see  effects  and  groups  every  moment  that  you  would 
give  money  to  be  able  to  carry  away  with  you  in 
enduring  form.  How  the  shadows  leap,  and  skulk, 
and  hover  about!  Light  and  darkness  are  in  per- 
petual tilt  and  warfare,  with  first  the  one  unhorsed, 
then  the  other.  The  friendly  and  cheering  fire, 
what  acquaintance  we  make  with  it!  We  had  al- 
most forgotten  there  was  such  an  element,  we  had  so 
long  known  only  its  dark  offspring,  heat.  Now  we 
see  the  wild  beauty  uncaged  and  note  its  manner 
and  temper.  How  surely  it  creates  its  own  draught 
and  sets  the  currents  going,  as  force  and  enthusi- 
asm always  will!  It  carves  itself  a  chimney  out  of 
the  fluid  and  houseless  air.  A  friend,  a  minister- 
ing angel,  in  subjection ;  a  fiend,  a  fury,  a  monster, 
ready  to  devour  the  world,  if  ungoverned.  By  day 
it  burrows  in  the  ashes  and  sleeps ;  at  night  it  comes 
forth  and  sits  upon  its  throne  of  rude  logs,  and  rules 
the  camp,  a  sovereign  queen. 

Near  camp  stood  a  tall,  ragged  yellow  birch,  its 
partially  cast-off  bark  hanging  in  crisp  sheets  or 
dense  rolls. 

"  That  tree  needs  the  barber,"  we  said,  "  and 
shall  have  a  call  from  him  to-night." 

So  after  dark  I  touched  a  match  into  it,  and  we 

saw  the  flames  creep  up  and  wax  in  fury  until  the 

whole  tree  and  its  main  branches  stood  wrapped  in 

a  sheet  of  roaring  flame.   It  was  a  wild  and  strik- 

234 


A   BED    OF   BOUGHS 

ing  spectacle,  and  must  have  advertised  our  camp 
to  every  nocturnal  creature  in  the  forest. 

What  does  the  camper  think  about  when  loun- 
ging around  the  fire  at  night  ?  Not  much,  —  of  the 
sport  of  the  day,  of  the  big  fish  he  lost  and  might 
have  saved,  of  the  distant  settlement,  of  to-morrow's 
plans.  An  owl  hoots  off  in  the  mountain  and  he 
thinks  of  him;  if  a  wolf  were  to  howl  or  a  panther 
to  scream,  he  would  think  of  him  the  rest  of  the 
night.  As  it  is,  things  flicker  and  hover  through  his 
mind,  and  he  hardly  knows  whether  it  is  the  past 
or  the  present  that  possesses  him.  Certain  it  is,  he 
feels  the  hush  and  solitude  of  the  great  forest,  and, 
whether  he  will  or  not,  all  his  musings  are  in  some 
way  cast  upon  that  huge  background  of  the  night. 
Unless  he  is  an  old  camper-out,  there  will  be  an 
undercurrent  of  dread  or  half  fear.  My  compan- 
ion said  he  could  not  help  but  feel  all  the  time  that 
there  ought  to  be  a  sentinel  out  there  pacing  up  and 
down.  One  seems  to  require  less  sleep  in  the  woods, 
as  if  the  ground  and  the  untempered  air  rested  and 
refreshed  him  sooner.  The  balsam  and  the  hem- 
lock heal  his  aches  very  quickly.  If  one  is  awakened 
often  during  the  night,  as  he  invariably  is,  he  does 
not  feel  that  sediment  of  sleep  in  his  mind  next  day 
that  he  does  when  the  same  interruption  occurs  at 
home;  the  boughs  have  drawn  it  all  out  of  him. 

And  it  is  wonderful  how  rarely  any  of  the  housed 
and  tender  white  man's  colds  or  influenzas  come 
235 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

through  these  open  doors  and  windows  of  the  woods. 
It  is  our  partial  isolation  from  Nature  that  is  dan- 
gerous; throw  yourself  unreservedly  upon  her  and 
she  rarely  betrays  you. 

If  one  takes  anything  to  the  woods  to  read,  he 
seldom  reads  it;  it  does  not  taste  good  with  such 
primitive  air. 

There  are  very  few  camp  poems  that  I  know  of, 
poems  that  would  be  at  home  with  one  on  such  an 
expedition;  there  is  plenty  that  is  weird  and  spec- 
tral, as  in  Poe,  but  little  that  is  woody  and  wild  as 
this  scene  is.  I  recall  a  Canadian  poem  by  the  late 
C.  D.  Shanly  —  the  only  one,  I  believe,  the  author 
ever  wrote  —  that  fits  well  the  distended  pupil  of 
the  mind's  eye  about  the  camp-fire  at  night.  It  was 
printed  many  years  ago  in  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly," 
and  is  called  "  The  Walker  of  the  Snow; "  it  begins 
thus:  — 

"  '  Speed  on,  speed  on,  good  master; 

The  camp  lies  far  away; 
We  must  cross  the  haunted  valley 
Before  the  close  of  day. '  ' 

"  That  has  a  Canadian  sound,"  said  Aaron; "  give 
us  more  of  it." 

"  '  How  the  snow-blight  came  upon  me 

I  will  tell  you  as  we  go,  — 
The  blight  of  the  shadow  hunter 
Who  walks  the  midnight  snow.* 


A   BED    OF   BOUGHS 

And  so  on.  The  intent  seems  to  be  to  personify 
the  fearful  cold  that  overtakes  and  benumbs  the 
traveler  in  the  great  Canadian  forests  in  winter. 
This  stanza  brings  out  the  silence  or  desolation  of 
the  scene  very  effectively,  —  a  scene  without  sound 
or  motion :  — 

"  '  Save  the  wailing  of  the  moose-bird 

With  a  plaintive  note  and  low; 
And  the  skating  of  the  red  leaf 
Upon  the  frozen  snow.' 

"  The  rest  of  the  poem  runs  thus :  — 

"  '  And  said  I,  Though  dark  is  falling, 

And  far  the  camp  must  be, 
Yet  my  heart  it  would  be  lightsome 
If  I  had  but  company. 

"  '  And  then  I  sang  and  shouted, 
Keeping  measure  as  I  sped, 
To  the  harp-twang  of  the  snow-shoe 
As  it  sprang  beneath  my  tread. 

" '  Nor  far  into  the  valley 

Had  I  dipped  upon  my  way, 
When  a  dusky  figure  joined  me 
In  a  capuchin  of  gray, 

" '  Bending  upon  the  snow-shoes 

With  a  long  and  limber  stride  ; 
And  I  hailed  the  dusky  stranger, 
As  we  traveled  side  by  side. 
237 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

"  '  But  no  token  of  communion 
Gave  he  by  word  or  look, 
And  the  fear-chill  fell  upon  me 
At  the  crossing  of  the  brook. 

" '  For  I  saw  by  the  sickly  moonlight, 

As  I  followed,  bending  low, 
That  the  walking  of  the  stranger 
Left  no  foot-marks  on  the  snow. 

" '  Then  the  fear-chill  gathered  o'er  me, 

Lake  a  shroud  around  me  cast, 
As  I  sank  upon  the  snow-drift 
Where  the  shadow  hunter  passed. 

"  '  And  the  otter-trappers  found  me, 

Before  the  break  of  day, 
With  my  dark  hair  blanched  and  whitened 
As  the  snow  in  which  I  lay. 

"  '  But  they  spoke  not  as  they  raised  me  ; 

For  they  knew  that  in  the  night 
I  had  seen  the  shadow  hunter 
And  had  withered  in  his  sight. 

"  '  Sancta  Maria  speed  us! 

The  sun  is  fallen  low : 

Before  us  lies  the  valley 

Of  the  Walker  of  the  Snow! '  " 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  my  companion.    "Let  us  pile 
on  more  of  those  dry  birch-logs;  I  feel  both  the 


A   BED    OF   BOUGHS 

'  fear-chill '  and  the  '  cold-chill '  creeping  over  me. 
How  far  is  it  to  the  valley  of  the  Neversink  ?  " 

"About  three  or  four  hours'  march,  the  man 
said." 

"  I  hope  we  have  no  haunted  valleys  to  cross  ? " 

"  None,"  said  I,  "  but  we  pass  an  old  log  cabin 
about  which  there  hangs  a  ghostly  superstition.  At 
a  certain  hour  in  the  night,  during  the  time  the  bark 
is  loose  on  the  hemlock,  a  female  form  is  said  to 
steal  from  it  and  grope  its  way  into  the  wilderness. 
The  tradition  runs  that  her  lover,  who  was  a  bark- 
peeler  and  wielded  the  spud,  was  killed  by  his  rival, 
who  felled  a  tree  upon  him  while  they  were  at 
work.  The  girl,  who  helped  her  mother  cook  for  the 
'  hands,'  was  crazed  by  the  shock,  and  that  night  stole 
forth  into  the  woods  and  was  never  seen  or  heard 
of  more.  There  are  old  hunters  who  aver  that  her 
cry  may  still  be  heard  at  night  at  the  head  of  the 
valley  whenever  a  tree  falls  in  the  stillness  of  the 
forest." 

"  Well,  I  heard  a  tree  fall  not  ten  minutes  ago," 
said  Aaron;  "  a  distant,  rushing  sound  with  a  sub- 
dued crash  at  the  end  of  it,  and  the  only  answering 
cry  I  heard  was  the  shrill  voice  of  the  screech  owl 
off  yonder  against  the  mountain.  But  maybe  it 
was  not  an  owl,"  said  he  after  a  moment;  "  let  us 
help  the  legend  along  by  believing  it  was  the  voice 
of  the  lost  maiden." 

"  By  the  way,"  continued  he,  "  do  you  remember 
239 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

the  pretty  creature  we  saw  seven  years  ago  in  the 
shanty  on  the  West  Branch,  who  was  really  helping 
her  mother  cook  for  the  hands,  a  slip  of  a  girl  twelve 
or  thirteen  years  old,  with  eyes  as  beautiful  and 
bewitching  as  the  waters  that  flowed  by  her  cabin  ? 
I  was  wrapped  in  admiration  till  she  spoke;  then 
how  the  spell  was  broken !  Such  a  voice !  It  was 
like  the  sound  of  pots  and  pans  when  you  expected 
to  hear  a  lute." 

The  next  day  we  bade  farewell  to  the  Rondout, 
and  set  out  to  cross  the  mountain  to  the  east  branch 
of  the  Neversink. 

"  We  shall  find  tame  waters  compared  with  these, 
I  fear,  —  a  shriveled  stream  brawling  along  over 
loose  stones,  with  few  pools  or  deep  places." 

Our  course  was  along  the  trail  of  the  bark-men 
who  had  pursued  the  doomed  hemlock  to  the  last 
tree  at  the  head  of  the  valley.  As  we  passed  along, 
a  red  steer  stepped  out  of  the  bushes  into  the  road 
ahead  of  us,  where  the  sunshine  fell  full  upon  him, 
and,  with  a  half-scared,  beautiful  look,  begged  alms 
of  salt.  We  passed  the  Haunted  Shanty;  but  both 
it  and  the  legend  about  it  looked  very  tame  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  After  the  road  had  faded 
out,  we  took  to  the  bed  of  the  stream  to  avoid  the 
gauntlet  of  the  underbrush,  skipping  up  the  moun- 
tain from  boulder  to  boulder.  Up  and  up  we  went, 
with  frequent  pauses  and  copious  quaffing  of  the 
cold  water.  My  soldier  declared  a  "  haunted  val- 
240 


A   BED   OF   BOUGHS 

ley"  would  be  a  godsend;  anything  but  endless 
dragging  of  one's  self  up  such  an  Alpine  stairway. 
The  winter  wren,  common  all  through  the  woods, 
peeped  and  scolded  at  us  as  we  sat  blowing  near 
the  summit,  and  the  oven-bird,  not  quite  sure  as  to 
what  manner  of  creatures  we  were,  hopped  down  a 
limb  to  within  a  few  feet  of  us  and  had  a  good  look, 
then  darted  off  into  the  woods  to  tell  the  news.  I 
also  noted  the  Canada  warbler,  the  chestnut-sided 
warbler,  and  the  black-throated  blue-back,  —  the 
latter  most  abundant  of  all.  Up  these  mountain 
brooks,  too,  goes  the  belted  kingfisher,  swooping 
around  through  the  woods  when  he  spies  the  fish- 
erman, then  wheeling  into  the  open  space  of  the 
stream  and  literally  making  a  "  blue  streak  "  down 
under  the  branches. 

At  last  the  stream  which  had  been  our  guide  was 
lost  under  the  rocks,  and  before  long  the  top  was 
gained.  These  mountains  are  horse-shaped.  There 
is  always  a  broad,  smooth  back,  more  or  less  de- 
pressed, which  the  hunter  aims  to  bestride;  rising 
rapidly  from  this  is  pretty  sure  to  be  a  rough,  curv- 
ing ridge  that  carries  the  forest  up  to  some  highest 
peak.  We  were  lucky  in  hitting  the  saddle,  but  we 
could  see  a  little  to  the  south  the  sharp,  steep  neck 
of  the  steed  sweeping  up  toward  the  sky  with  an 
erect  mane  of  balsam  fir. 

These  mountains  are  steed-like  in  other  respects : 
any  timid  and  vacillating  course  with  them  is  sure 
241 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

to  get  you  into  trouble.  One  must  strike  out  boldly, 
and  not  be  disturbed  by  the  curveting  and  shying; 
the  valley  you  want  lies  squarely  behind  them,  but 
farther  off  than  you  think,  and  if  you  do  not  go 
for  it  resolutely,  you  will  get  bewildered  and  the 
mountain  will  play  you  a  trick. 

I  may  say  that  Aaron  and  I  kept  a  tight  rein 
and  a  good  pace  till  we  struck  a  water-course  on 
the  other  side,  and  that  we  clattered  down  it  with 
no  want  of  decision  till  it  emptied  into  a  larger 
stream  which  we  knew  must  be  the  East  Branch. 
An  abandoned  fishpole  lay  on  the  stones,  marking 
the  farthest  point  reached  by  some  fisherman. 
According  to  our  reckoning,  we  were  five  or  six 
miles  above  the  settlement,  with  a  good  depth  of 
primitive  woods  all  about  us. 

We  kept  on  down  the  stream,  now  and  then  paus- 
ing at  a  likely  place  to  take  some  trout  for  dinner, 
and  with  an  eye  out  for  a  good  camping-ground. 
Many  of  the  trout  were  full  of  ripe  spawn,  and  a 
few  had  spawned,  the  season  with  them  being  a 
little  later  than  on  the  stream  we  had  left,  perhaps 
because  the  water  was  less  cold.  Neither  had  the 
creek  here  any  such  eventful  and  startling  career. 
It  led,  indeed,  quite  a  humdrum  sort  of  life  under 
the  roots  and  fallen  treetops  and  among  the  loose 
stones.  At  rare  intervals  it  beamed  upon  us  from 
some  still  reach  or  dark  cover,  and  won  from  us  our 
best  attention  in  return. 

242 


A   BED   OF   BOUGHS 

The  day  was  quite  spent  before  we  had  pitched 
our  air-woven  tent  and  prepared  our  dinner,  and  we 
gathered  boughs  for  our  bed  in  the  gloaming.  Break- 
fast had  to  be  caught  in  the  morning  and  was  not 
served  early,  so  that  it  was  nine  o'clock  before  we 
were  in  motion.  A  little  bird,  the  red-eyed  vireo, 
warbled  most  cheerily  in  the  trees  above  our  camp, 
and,  as  Aaron  said,  "  gave  us  a  good  send-off."  We 
kept  down  the  stream,  following  the  inevitable  bark 
road. 

My  companion  had  refused  to  look  at  another 
*'  dividing  ridge "  that  had  neither  path  nor  way, 
and  henceforth  I  must  keep  to  the  open  road  or 
travel  alone.  Two  hours'  tramp  brought  us  to  an 
old  clearing  with  some  rude,  tumble-down  log 
buildings  that  many  years  before  had  been  occupied 
by  the  bark  and  lumber  men.  The  prospect  for 
trout  was  so  good  in  the  stream  hereabouts,  and  the 
scene  so  peaceful  and  inviting,  shone  upon  by  the 
dreamy  August  sun,  that  we  concluded  to  tarry  here 
until  the  next  day.  It  was  a  page  of  pioneer  history 
opened  to  quite  unexpectedly.  A  dim  footpath 
led  us  a  few  yards  to  a  superb  spring,  in  which  a 
trout  from  the  near  creek  had  taken  up  his  abode. 
We  took  possession  of  what  had  been  a  shingle-shop, 
attracted  by  its  huge  fireplace.  We  floored  it  with 
balsam  boughs,  hung  its  walls  with  our  "  traps," 
and  sent  the  smoke  curling  again  from  its  disused 
chimney. 

243 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

The  most  musical  and  startling  sound  we  heard  in 
the  woods  greeted  our  ears  that  evening  about  sun- 
down as  we  sat  on  a  log  in  front  of  our  quarters,  — 
the  sound  of  slow,  measured  pounding  in  the  valley 
below  us.  We  did  not  know  how  near  we  were  to 
human  habitations,  and  the  report  of  the  lumber- 
man's mallet,  like  the  hammering  of  a  great  wood- 
pecker, was  music  to  the  ear  and  news  to  the  mind. 
The  air  was  still  and  dense,  and  the  silence  such  as 
alone  broods  over  these  little  openings  in  the  primi- 
tive woods.  My  soldier  started  as  if  he  had  heard 
a  signal-gun.  The  sound,  coming  so  far  through 
the  forest,  sweeping  over  those  great  wind-harps  of 
trees,  became  wild  and  legendary,  though  probably 
made  by  a  lumberman  driving  a  wedge  or  working 
about  his  mill. 

We  expected  a  friendly  visit  from  porcupines  that 
night,  as  we  saw  where  they  had  freshly  gnawed  all 
about  us ;  hence,  when  a  red  squirrel  came  and 
looked  in  upon  us  very  early  in  the  morning  and 
awoke  us  by  his  snickering  and  giggling,  my  com- 
rade cried  out,  "  There  is  your  porcupig."  How  the 
frisking  red  rogue  seemed  to  enjoy  what  he  had 
found!  He  looked  in  at  the  door  and  snickered, 
then  in  at  the  window,  then  peeked  down  from  be- 
tween the  rafters  and  cachinnated  till  his  sides  must 
have  ached ;  then  struck  an  attitude  upon  the  chim- 
ney, and  fairly  squealed  with  mirth  and  ridicule. 
In  fact,  he  grew  so  obstreperous,  and  so  disturbed 
244 


A   BED    OF   BOUGHS 

our  repose,  that  we  had  to  "  shoo  "  him  away  with 
one  of  our  boots.  He  declared  most  plainly  that  he 
had  never  before  seen  so  preposterous  a  figure  as 
we  cut  lying  there  in  the  corner  of  that  old  shanty. 
The  morning  boded  rain,  the  week  to  which  we 
had  limited  ourselves  drew  near  its  close,  and  we 
concluded  to  finish  our  holiday  worthily  by  a  good 
square  tramp  to  the  railroad  station,  twenty-three 
miles  distant,  as  it  proved.  Two  miles  brought  us 
to  stumpy  fields,  and  to  the  house  of  the  upper  in- 
habitant. They  told  us  there  was  a  short  cut  across 
the  mountain,  but  my  soldier  shook  his  head. 

"  Better  twenty  miles  of  Europe,"  said  he,  getting 
Tennyson  a  little  mixed,  "  than  one  of  Cathay,  or 
Slide  Mountain  either." 

Drops  of  the  much-needed  rain  began  to  come 
down,  and  I  hesitated  in  front  of  the  woodshed. 

"  Sprinkling  weather  always  comes  to  some  bad 
end,"  said  Aaron,  with  a  reminiscence  of  an  old 
couplet  in  his  mind,  and  so  it  proved,  for  it  did  not 
get  beyond  a  sprinkle,  and  the  sun  shone  out  before 
noon. 

In  the  next  woods  I  picked  up  from  the  middle 
of  the  road  the  tail  and  one  hind  leg  of  one  of  our 
native  rats,  the  first  I  had  ever  seen  except  in  a 
museum.  An  owl  or  fox  had  doubtless  left  it  the 
night  before.  It  was  evident  the  fragments  had 
once  formed  part  of  a  very  elegant  and  slender  crea- 
ture. The  fur  that  remained  (for  it  was  not  hair) 
245 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

was  tipped  with  red.  My  reader  doubtless  knows 
that  the  common  rat  is  an  importation,  and  that 
there  is  a  native  American  rat,  usually  found  much 
farther  south  than  the  locality  of  which  I  am  writ- 
ing, that  lives  in  the  woods,  —  a  sylvan  rat,  very 
wild  and  nocturnal  in  his  habits,  and  seldom  seen 
even  by  hunters  or  woodmen.  Its  eyes  are  large 
and  fine,  and  its  form  slender.  It  looks  like  only 
a  far-off  undegenerate  cousin  of  the  filthy  creature 
that  has  come  to  us  from  the  long-peopled  Old 
World.  Some  creature  ran  between  my  feet  and 
the  fire  toward  morning,  the  last  night  we  slept 
in  the  woods,  and  I  have  little  doubt  it  was  one  of 
these  wood-rats. 

The  people  in  these  back  settlements  are  almost 
as  shy  and  furtive  as  the  animals.  Even  the  men 
look  a  little  scared  when  you  stop  them  by  your 
questions.  The  children  dart  behind  their  parents 
when  you  look  at  them.  As  we  sat  on  a  bridge  rest- 
ing, —  for  our  packs  still  weighed  fifteen  or  twenty 
pounds  each,  —  two  women  passed  us  with  pails  on 
their  arms,  going  for  blackberries.  They  filed  by 
with  their  eyes  down  like  two  abashed  nuns. 

In  due  time  we  found  an  old  road,  to  which  we 
had  been  directed,  that  led  over  the  mountain  to 
the  West  Branch.  It  was  a  hard  pull,  sweetened 
by  blackberries  and  a  fine  prospect.  The  snowbird 
was  common  along  the  way,  and  a  solitary  wild 
pigeon  shot  through  the  woods  in  front  of  us,recall- 
246 


SOME  PEOPLE   OF  THE  CATSKILLS 


A   BED   OF   BOUGHS 

ing  the  nests  we  had  seen  on  the  East  Branch,  — • 
little  scaffoldings  of  twigs  scattered  all  through  the 
trees. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  we  struck  the  West 
Branch,  and  the  sun  was  scalding  hot.  We  knew 
that  two  and  three  pound  trout  had  been  taken 
there,  and  yet  we  wet  not  a  line  in  its  waters.  The 
scene  was  primitive,  and  carried  one  back  to  the 
days  of  his  grandfather,  stumpy  fields,  log  fences, 
log  houses  and  barns.  A  boy  twelve  or  thirteen 
years  old  came  out  of  a  house  ahead  of  us  eating  a 
piece  of  bread  and  butter.  We  soon  overtook  him 
and  held  converse  with  him.  He  knew  the  land 
well,  and  what  there  was  in  the  woods  and  the 
waters.  He  had  walked  out  to  the  railroad  station, 
fourteen  miles  distant,  to  see  the  cars,  and  back  the 
same  day.  I  asked  him  about  the  flies  and  mosqui- 
toes, etc.  He  said  they  were  all  gone  except  the 
"  blunder-heads;"  there  were  some  of  them  left  yet. 

"  What  are  blunder-heads  ?  "  I  inquired,  sniffing 
new  game. 

"The  pesky  little  fly  that  gets  into  your  eye 
when  you  are  a-fishing." 

Ah,  yes!  I  knew  him  well.  We  had  got  ac- 
quainted some  days  before,  and  I  thanked  the  boy 
for  the  name.  It  is  an  insect  that  hovers  before 
your  eye  as  you  thread  the  streams,  and  you  are 
forever  vaguely  brushing  at  it  under  the  delusion 
that  it  is  a  little  spider  suspended  from  your  hat- 
247 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

brim ;  and  just  as  you  want  to  see  clearest,  into  your 
eye  it  goes,  head  and  ears,  and  is  caught  between 
the  lids.  You  miss  your  cast,  but  you  catch  a 
"  blunder-head." 

We  paused  under  a  bridge  at  the  mouth  of  Bis- 
cuit Brook  and  ate  our  lunch,  and  I  can  recommend 
it  to  be  as  good  a  wayside  inn  as  the  pedestrian  need 
look  for.  Better  bread  and  milk  than  we  had  there 
I  never  expect  to  find.  The  milk  was  indeed  so 
good  that  Aaron  went  down  to  the  little  log  house 
under  the  hill  a  mile  farther  on  and  asked  for  more; 
and  being  told  they  had  no  cow,  he  lingered  five 
minutes  on  the  doorstone  with  his  sooty  pail  in  his 
hand,  putting  idle  questions  about  the  way  and 
distance  to  the  mother  while  he  refreshed  himself 
with  the  sight  of  a  well-dressed  and  comely-looking 
young  girl,  her  daughter. 

"I  got  no  milk,"  said  he,  hurrying  on  after 
me,  "  but  I  got  something  better,  only  I  cannot 
divide  it." 

"  I  know  what  it  is,"  replied  I ;  "  I  heard  her 
voice." 

"  Yes,  and  it  was  a  good  one,  too.  The  sweetest 
sound  I  ever  heard,"  he  went  on,  "  was  a  girl's 
voice  after  I  had  been  four  years  in  the  army,  and, 
by  Jove!  if  I  did  n't  experience  something  of  the 
same  pleasure  in  hearing  this  young  girl  speak  after 
a  week  in  the  woods.  She  had  evidently  been  out 
in  the  world  and  was  home  on  a  visit.  It  was  a 
248 


A   BED   OF   BOUGHS 

different  look  she  gave  me  from  that  of  the  natives. 
This  is  better  than  fishing  for  trout,"  said  he.  "  You 
drop  in  at  the  next  house." 

But  the  next  house  looked  too  unpromising. 

"  There  is  no  milk  there,"  said  I,  "  unless  they 
keep  a  goat." 

"  But  could  we  not,"  said  my  facetious  compan- 
ion, "  go  it  on  that  ?  " 

A  couple  of  miles  beyond  I  stopped  at  a  house  that 
enjoyed  the  distinction  of  being  clapboarded,  and 
had  the  good  fortune  to  find  both  the  milk  and  the 
young  lady.  A  mother  and  her  daughter  were  again 
the  only  occupants  save  a  babe  in  the  cradle,  which 
the  young  woman  quickly  took  occasion  to  disclaim. 

"  It  has  not  opened  its  dear  eyes  before  since  its 
mother  left.  Come  to  aunty,"  and  she  put  out  her 
hands. 

The  daughter  filled  my  pail  and  the  mother  re- 
plenished our  stock  of  bread.  They  asked  me  to 
sit  and  cool  myself,  and  seemed  glad  of  a  stranger 
to  talk  with.  They  had  come  from  an  adjoining 
county  five  years  before,  and  had  carved  their  little 
clearing  out  of  the  solid  woods. 

"The  men  folks,"  the  mother  said,  "came  on 
ahead  and  built  the  house  right  among  the  big 
trees,"  pointing  to  the  stumps  near  the  door. 

One  no  sooner  sets  out  with  his  pack  upon  his 
back  to  tramp  through  the  land  than  all  objects  and 
persons  by  the  way  have  a  new  and  curious  interest 
249 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

to  him.  The  tone  of  his  entire  being  is  not  a  little 
elevated,  and  all  his  perceptions  and  susceptibilities 
quickened.  I  feel  that  some  such  statement  is 
necessary  to  justify  the  interest  that  I  felt  in  this 
backwoods  maiden.  A  slightly  pale  face  it  was, 
strong  and  well  arched,  with  a  tender,  wistful  ex- 
pression not  easy  to  forget. 

I  had  surely  seen  that  face  many  times  before  in 
towns  and  cities,  and  in  other  lands,  but  I  hardly 
expected  to  meet  it  here  amid  the  stumps.  What 
were  the  agencies  that  had  given  it  its  fine  lines  and 
its  gracious  intelligence  amid  these  simple,  primi- 
tive scenes  ?  What  did  my  heroine  read,  or  think  ? 
or  what  were  her  unfulfilled  destinies  ?  She  wore 
a  sprig  of  prince's  pine  in  her  hair,  which  gave  a 
touch  peculiarly  welcome. 

"  Pretty  lonely,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  my  in- 
quiry; "only  an  occasional  fisherman  in  summer, 
and  in  winter  —  nobody  at  all." 

And  the  little  new  schoolhouse  in  the  woods  far- 
ther on,  with  its  half-dozen  scholars  and  the  girlish 
face  of  the  teacher  seen  through  the  open  door,  — 
nothing  less  than  the  exhilaration  of  a  journey  on 
foot  could  have  made  it  seem  the  interesting  object 
it  was.  Two  of  the  little  girls  had  been  to  the 
spring  after  a  pail  of  water,  and  came  struggling  out 
of  the  woods  into  the  road  with  it  as  we  passed. 
They  set  down  their  pail  and  regarded  us  with  a 
half-curious,  half-alarmed  look. 
250 


A   BED   OF   BOUGHS 

"  What  is  your  teacher's  name  ? "  asked  one  of  us. 

"  Miss  Lucinde  Josephine "  began  the  red- 
haired  one,  then  hesitated,  bewildered,  when  the 
bright,  dark-eyed  one  cut  her  short  with  "  Miss 
Simms,"  and  taking  hold  of  the  pail  said,  "Come 
on." 

"Are  there  any  scholars  from  above  here?"  I 
inquired. 

"Yes,  Bobbie  and  Matie,"  and  they  hastened 
toward  the  door. 

We  once  more  stopped  under  a  bridge  for  refresh- 
ments, and  took  our  time,  knowing  the  train  would 
not  go  on  without  us.  By  four  o'clock  we  were 
across  the  mountain,  having  passed  from  the  water- 
shed of  the  Delaware  into  that  of  the  Hudson.  The 
next  eight  miles  we  had  a  down  grade  but  a  rough 
road,  and  during  the  last  half  of  it  we  had  blisters 
on  the  bottoms  of  our  feet.  It  is  one  of  the  rewards 
of  the  pedestrian  that,  however  tired  he  may  be, 
he  is  always  more  or  less  refreshed  by  his  journey. 
His  physical  tenement  has  taken  an  airing.  His 
respiration  has  been  deepened,  his  circulation  quick- 
ened. A  good  draught  has  carried  off  the  fumes  and 
the  vapors.  One's  quality  is  intensified;  the  color 
strikes  in.  At  noon  that  day  I  was  much  fatigued; 
at  night  I  was  leg-weary  and  footsore,  but  a  fresh, 
hardy  feeling  had  taken  possession  of  me  that  lasted 
for  weeks. 


<gr be  ftibatffte  pecs* 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


QH 


DATE  DUE 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


